


Forget Me Never

by Sorted



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian is awesome, Dual POV, Enemies to Lovers, Flashbacks, M/M, Qunari Culture and Customs, Seheron, Sex, Slow Burn, Spying, lying, reeducation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 12:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17284310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorted/pseuds/Sorted
Summary: The story of how a Tevinter mage and a Ben-Hassrath spy fell in love…twice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am _so sorry_ , y’all, I did say I was done with this fandom. I, um…lied. Apparently.
> 
> ONE MORE!
> 
> I was wondering about reeducation. When talking to Iron Bull about the Qun, Seheron, and his past, how much of that is actually true? The reeducators could have altered his memory. If they did, how much? And how would he know? Who’s going to tell him something different from what he knows and tells the PC?
> 
> There were various options to explore this, and I went with an AU (*facepalm*) where Dorian and Bull met before reeducation. This is good because it keeps the two of them in the center of the story and can affect their relationship. It’s bad because it sort of defeats the purpose of exploring the question, from a canon point of view. Urgh.
> 
> If this premise has been done before, I apologize. I haven’t read any such stories because I’ve read almost no Dragon Age AUs. I just don’t do AUs with Dragon Age. Promise I didn’t mean to copy anyone’s idea.

“Good, you’re finally here. Now help me close this, would you?”

_Priority one: demons._

_Priority two: protect Trevelyan, give her a shot at the Rift._

_Priority three: unknown mage, obviously Tevinter._ He had barely looked around when their party entered and was already back to fighting, frying demons left and right, and who knew how long he’d been at this by himself? _Powerful unknown mage_ , Bull amended, and as he dove into the fray, keeping the demons off Trevelyan, he kept an eye on the field of battle, from one encounter to the next, working his way closer to the Vint.

The second the Rift snapped and sealed, Bull was behind him, watching and in range. One hostile twitch from the guy and his neck would snap.

“Fascinating. How does that work, exactly?”

_Okay, not hostile yet._ It wasn’t even the words or the tone— _Vint mage, can incinerate you at will and smile politely while doing it_ —it was the completely relaxed stance, the staff hung back in its holster, the defenseless approach to stand right in front of a young woman who had just pulled the Veil itself back together. Bull backed off a bit, came back around the guy to rejoin the Herald as the Vint introduced himself.

Evelyn visibly jumped when he said “Minrathous.”

“Watch yourself. The pretty ones are the worst.”

“Suspicious—” And nothing. The genial expression froze, the man suddenly silent. Suddenly staring.

It barely lasted a heartbeat.

“ _You!_ ”

Bull didn’t frown. Didn’t show confusion. “Never met a Qunari before, Vint?” He didn’t expect the Vint to suddenly break into a smile.

“Ha! What a mad thing to say!” _Yeah…smiling, but something else in the eyes. Maybe tension._ The man cocked his head. He was beaming, shifting like he wanted to step forward. “What on earth are you doing here, Hissrad?”

_What the shit._

“Um, what’s going on? Bull, do you know this man?”

“Uh…”

“Your pardon, Herald—it is the Herald of Andraste, yes?” The Vint bowed gallantly. At her cordial nod, he continued, eyes flicking back to Bull and away again, fast. “New nickname, I see. Well, so be it. _Bull_ , as you call him, and I met a few years ago, and I’m eager to hear how he came here to the South. It could be no less surprising a story than my own.”

All that was fine—Vints could make up anything, and Bull had time enough to figure out why he’d want to. The problem right now was the name. _Hissrad._ Bull hadn’t mentioned his title to anyone in the Inquisition. He was The Iron Bull as far as anyone here knew. So how did this Vint know it?

Bull watched for it, and there were none of the usual subtle mannerisms to signal a fellow Ben-Hassrath. None of the pass codes slipped into his speech. _What the shit._ This was just getting weirder.

“Listen, Vint, I don’t know who you think you used to know, but you’ve got the wrong guy. We’ve never met.”

A moment of blank. “What sort of joke is this?” The man’s pleasant smile looked perfect—on the surface.

The Herald cut in, hands on hips, “That’s what _I’d_ like to know! What sort of joke is _all_ this? What’s with the note, and the magister, and the chantry full of demons, and you knowing Bull, and where is that Felix kid who was supposed to be here?”

“Felix should be along momentarily…” The Vint quickly explained the situation with the magister and his connection to all of it, and he kept the visible part of his attention on the Herald, smiling and charming. But the lines around his eyes were suddenly just a touch more visible, and his gaze skipped, every time Evelyn answered him—flicking away from her and almost, but not quite, landing on Bull.

And his arms remained relaxed at his side and his staff remained in its holster at his back, but Bull caught the subtle twitch of the fingers of his right hand. That was no Ben-Hassrath signal. That was a mage who wanted to reach for his staff and stopped himself.

Bull likewise didn’t make any aggressive moves, but he rolled his shoulders as if to stretch after the fight, and the relaxed-looking stance he ended up in put his own hands a hair’s breadth away from both his hidden daggers.

Then he heard a step in the shadows. He almost twitched, but managed not to. Good thing—it was that Felix kid, in just as defenseless a posture, and bringing the news Evelyn had come to hear.

The first Vint—Pavus, not a magister, which meant altus, no question—certainly regarded Felix Alexius as an ally, and both of them remained at ease around the Herald. Probably the first people to take the weird glowing hand totally in stride. _Vints._

“I’ll be in touch,” Pavus said as he left. They’d never gotten back around to how ( _the fuck_ ) he knew Bull’s real title—but a cult from Tevinter was big enough news to justify the change of topic. _Probably not evading_. Doubly so because he’d been the one to bring it up.

So—that might have been genuine. Real surprise, real recognition, and Bull’s _real fucking title under the Qun_.

He had hours of travel back to Haven to decide what to say in his report. On the one hand—pretty fucking important detail if an altus knew his role without being told. On the other, the story didn’t fit. He’d claimed they’d met. They hadn’t. They just _hadn’t_. Bull could remember every Vint noble he’d ever exchanged more than battle with; he could recite the names and faces. There weren’t all that many. This one, Pavus? He’d have been hard to forget, with a face like that.

So then, between those two hands—what to tell the Ben-Hassrath? _He claims to know me, knows my title. I have never seen him in my life._ And what would the Ben-Hassrath make of that?

_Maybe you’re slipping, Hissrad. Report back to Par Vollen._

Report back? _Go through an evaluation_. Then…

With a memory gap like this? If it _was_ only a memory gap… _No good for spy work, anyway._

He should report this, let them make the call. It wasn’t his role to make these kinds of judgements.

But…

_Maybe get a little more intel first._ He was bound to meet the guy again. Evelyn had reacted to the idea of recruiting a bunch of Templars like a fennec reacts to an explosion. She’d find a way to get those mages, cult or no cult. So they’d probably meet Pavus again. Bull could at least try to crack him, get some idea what he was playing at. It would make a much more useful report. And it probably wouldn’t be much of a delay. Couple weeks at most, right?

_Right._

\--

Bull was outside Haven, talking to Krem by the stables when the Vint from Redcliff arrived. No one welcomed him, but he seemed entirely unconcerned with that. He waltzed into the town as if he owned it.

_Vints._

There was one long moment, though. When his eyes fell on Bull, they lingered. He didn’t seem quite able to look away. But he didn’t come over and speak to him, so Bull stayed where he was. Let Evelyn deal with him; then, when Bull knew where all this stood, he’d take steps to get the necessary info out of the guy.

He did have a report written already—a thin one. He should have Red approve it. Bull went up to her tent, knowing full well she was probably in the Chantry with the Herald. _Oh well. No harm waiting._

So he waited, and when the Herald emerged with the Vint, Bull was close enough—thanks to slightly better-than-human hearing—to catch what was said.

“Well, that was a bit more… _tense_ than I had anticipated.” Contrary to the topic, the Vint looked perfectly at ease. “Your ex-Templar Commander there is quite keen on tracking down the remains of his former Order.”

Evelyn stopped and turned to face him with a wry smile. “As entertaining as it would be to hear a mage from Tevinter try to argue in favor of the Inquisition hitching itself to a bunch of rogue Templars…it’s cold out.” She shook her head. “I’ve been running from them and fighting for my life a bit too much to turn around and give them big hugs right now. I hope you understand.”

A graceful half-bow. “My lady, I agree with you utterly and completely.”

“Grand.”

Leliana arrived at that point, so Bull missed it if there was anything else. The Vint and the Herald were gone by the time he finished with Red, so he went back out to Krem.

It wasn’t the last he saw of the pair, though. Evelyn brought the Vint out to the stables and had him outfitted. He was apparently traveling to Redcliff ahead of the main party. When that was taken care of, she bid him farewell and headed back into Haven.

The Vint, however, paused in his travel preparations. Bull saw him heading over and turned to meet him.

Silence, at first. The man studied him. Then, at length: “You’ve gotten rather fat, haven’t you?”

Bull didn’t so much as blink. He’d expected this game to continue. “Good guess, Vint.”

The guy’s eyes registered his understanding. Yes, if the Vint could pretend they knew each other, Bull could stick to his story that they didn’t. After a moment, he asked, “What on earth happened to your eye?”

Bull shrugged. “I lost it.”

A flicker of something, then. “How clumsy of you.”

Bull grunted. Then, when the Vint hesitated, he prompted, “Aren’t you going to try to tell me all about how we supposedly met before?” That was a tactic—pretend not to want to hear a story and you’d get the whole thing. Not his most common go-to, but it seemed like the best option here.

Instead, the man studied him closely. “You…really don’t remember?”

_Okay, try another one._ “Can’t remember a guy I haven’t met,” he drawled a bit, going a little more laid-back. “Besides, you seem like you’d be pretty unforgettable.”

He got a faint uptilt of the corner of the man’s pretty mouth, for that. “I am that,” he murmured, but his eyes didn’t waver. Then: “Nothing? Really?” Bull gave another shrug. “The fight on the beach?” he pressed. “Sneaking through the jungle? Your very valuable prisoner?”

“Sorry, can’t help you.” _Jungle?_ That was at least a frame of reference, then. _Seheron_. 

Suddenly, the man pointedly looked down, then back up again. Something hard had entered his grey eyes. “If I may ask, how did you lose your fingers?”

Bull blinked. _Funny question._ “In a fight. Somebody shot them off. I didn’t see who.”

The stare had become piercing. This guy really wasn’t trying to hide how closely he was examining Bull. The scrutiny made his horns feel itchy. “That must have hurt.”

“Yeah,” Bull agreed, automatically. It probably had. He didn’t remember what he’d done about it at the time. Probably happened in the heat of battle, and he’d barely noticed. Probably didn’t feel it until later. Probably wrapped them up and got on with whatever he’d been doing.

Seheron was fucked. Lots of things blurred together. It wasn’t so weird that he couldn’t specifically remember where and when it had happened. Didn’t have any memories of tying off the bleeding stumps. It was a battle injury. He had lots of them. He didn’t remember the aftermath of every scar, these days. Just the good ones, with good stories.

Apparently his fingers weren’t a good story. He’d never thought about it before. Oh well.

The Vint’s searching expression faded away to vacant politeness. “Well.” He stepped back. “Delighted to meet you…Iron Bull, I’m told?”

“It’s _The_ Iron Bull.”

A bland smile. “It’s academic, as far as I’m concerned. You see, Ben-Hassrath, I’ll probably not be speaking to you again.”

“Looking forward to working with you too, magister.”

The expression didn’t even flicker. “You’ll have to do better than that if you’re angling to upset me. Good day.”

_All right—that wasn’t a complete waste._ Bull watched the Vint saddle up and ride off for Redcliff and considered what he’d learned. It didn’t amount to much. The place they had supposedly met was Seheron, which gave Bull a specific time frame—he could check that against the known whereabouts of Dorian Pavus. That was good, too—he could easily request all Ben-Hassrath intel on Pavus without giving any deeper reason than “he showed up here and is aiding the Inquisition.”

Really, he should probably report Pavus’ weird game of pretending to have met him before, but there were still a lot of questions. He hadn’t gotten much of the story at all, and nothing on why the guy would make such a thing up. They’d meet again in Redcliff in a few days anyway. And he had just cleared a report with Red; he could send that one for now.

Another week wouldn’t hurt.

\--

The boss slid into a chair with a casual grace that said that no matter how long she’d been in the Circle, she’d been a highborn little lady first. Things drilled into you before you were ten never quite drilled their way back out again.

“So.” She leaned back. Had a drink in hand, too. That was good. Meant he was making progress. “If you have some kind of Qunari-Tevinter game you feel like you need to play, that’s fine. I won’t say a word. But confidentially, I need to know if you actually did know Dorian Pavus before.”

_Interesting_. Bull calculated which advisor was pushing her to ask. Each one might have their reasons, but the boss, for all she asked people a lot of questions, usually didn’t ask about others behind their backs. So she’d need some extra motivation to push her into this conversation…

“Confidentially and officially, or confidentially and for private reasons?” He winked.

“What?” She blinked. “What sort of private r- _oh._ ” She arched an eyebrow at Bull. “My dear spy, I don’t know if you noticed, but he doesn’t swing my way.”

Bull chuckled. “Yeah, boss. Sorry.”

“Mmm.” She shook her head. “Official reasons, as a matter of fact. Dorian says he’s not a magister, and I had a chat with him about blood magic and he says he doesn’t practice it, but he’s still a mage from Tevinter. The rules are different there, and Cullen’s worried…”

_Ah_. Yeah, that one would provide the motivation.

“I _reminded_ him that mages are _people_ , and we don’t all jump in bed with a demon the first chance we get because we just can’t help ourselves unless some Templar is standing there keeping us sane, but he still wanted to put Dorian through some kind of abomination test.” She sighed. “Anyway, in the interests of keeping everyone happy, if you _did_ know him before and can tell us anything about him, that would be most helpful.”

Evelyn took a drink, and Bull shrugged. “Wish I could help you, boss, but he’s mistaking me for some other guy with horns. I’ve never met him before.”

She _tsked_. “Damn. How am I going to get Dorian to agree to an abomination test?”

Bull hummed. “Maybe you won’t need to. Let’s worry about Redcliff for now. If that works out and he sticks around…” Bull grinned. “Tell him Cullen will be naked for the test.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened in amusement—casual enough, but her ears turned bright red. Funny how humans couldn’t control all their tells. “Ah…and how do I get Cullen to agree to _that?_ ”

Bull winked his one eye at her. “Ask nicely.”

Evelyn’s blush was spreading. She cleared her throat. “ _Anyway_. So you’re sure you and Dorian have never met before?”

“Yeah, boss. Sorry.”

She clicked her tongue and tapped her foot. “I wonder why he would lie about something like that.” She glanced over. “Any spy insight? Stuff you observed that us untrained non-spies would have missed?”

“Well, I don’t know how much you got from him when you two talked…”

“Oh,” she straightened, ticking things off on her fingers. “Well, he’s nobility; his father’s a magister. He doesn’t get on well with his family. I didn’t get all the details, but it sounds like they had a future planned for him that he didn’t like. Oh and a wife was involved, which he obviously wasn’t interested in. Not sure why his family even tried to arrange a wife for him; you’d think they could have found him a suitable husband, but I don’t know. We didn’t get too far into all that, I had to ask him about blood magic and he said it’s very common there but he’s a rebel.” She paused. “Though he didn’t seem too down on _all_ blood magic. Maker, I better not tell Cullen he thinks using your own blood doesn’t count.” She made a face.

Bull hummed, apparently thinking. He obviously wasn’t going to reveal the detail about Pavus being right about his title. There wasn’t anything valuable he could tell her, really, without getting clearance. But then, there was a lot she didn’t know about Vints; he could tell her common sense things and still make it feel like an informative chat.

“Well, that lines up with what I saw of him. His speech and mannerisms fit the nobility thing. That also means he’s probably a hell of an actor. The upper class Vints teach their kids how to hide their feelings right after they teach them to _walk_.”

Evelyn grimaced. “Well. That’s fun. Sounds like Orlais, but worse.” She grabbed a roll from a plate on the table and tore it in half. “So everything I got from him was a lie?”

Bull shrugged a little. “It could be. Doesn’t mean it _was_. He probably is a magister’s son, which makes him a big enough deal that it’s easy to find out about him. And he knows you have a spymaster. Red can check out his story. If he tried to get you to buy a load of bullshit, he’d really hurt his case down the road when you found out the truth.”

“Big lies only ever work in the short term,” the Herald agreed, nodding thoughtfully.

“Yeah. So if he hangs around, chances are he’s got long-term goals, which means you can probably believe a little more of what he tells you about himself. Just don’t expect him to let on what he really thinks. That smile doesn’t mean much.”

Trevelyan sighed. “Maker, I hope you’re wrong. I don’t know how many more insincere political-types I can handle.”

Bull regarded her. He’d seen her deal with so-called “political-types” on a few occasions so far, and she handled them quite well, considering how limited her social experiences were, growing up in a Circle. But then again—those ten or so years beforehand.

So she handled it. Didn’t mean she liked doing so, or was comfortable with formality. As a matter of fact, she was taking to Bull a lot quicker than he’d expected. Probably just meant she felt more at ease with the easygoing types.

Gently, he patted between her shoulder blades. “Well, boss, there’s always the tavern if fancy tea-time gets you down.”

She smiled appreciatively at him. “I know, and it looks like I’ll be a frequent patron, if things keep going the way they are. Making me deal with these social elites…ugh. That was the _one good thing_ about the Circle, you know. I hated every minute of that place, but I told myself every day—at least I didn’t have to worry about ‘lady lessons’ anymore. No parties with insincere people and no arranged marriage and no _needlepoint_. That alone almost made the prison worth it.”

Bull grinned. “Pretty sure needles are banned from the tavern, boss.”

She laughed. She had a nice laugh, really pretty, but it tended to end in a snort. “Even more reason to hide out in here, away from all the nobles.” She took another drink and set her tankard down with a little more force than necessary. “I just want people to be _honest!_ Like you, and Cassandra, and, and-you-know-Cullen and Scout Harding, she’s so great…”

Bull let himself smile a little. “Too bad Cullen’s a former Templar, huh?”

Evelyn’s ears went red again. “Well, yes and no. He’s got all those Chantry ideas about magic…but at least he’s upfront about them.”

“You guys disagree a lot, I hear.”

She winced. “I almost punched him over the Dorian thing. He’s really not happy about recruiting the rebel mages. Nobody’s getting along right now. Still.” She smiled a little. “I like his grumpy arguing better than Vivienne’s super-nice _manners._ ”

Bull hummed and declined to comment for now. “Oh, and boss?”

“Hmm?”

“Dorian’s family wouldn’t have even tried to find him a husband. They don’t do that, in Tevinter.”

The change of topic—or the information—left her a little lost. “What? Yes they do. They have marriages, he _said…_ oh.”

“Yeah.”

She blinked a few times. “Whyever _not?_ ”

“Eh,” Bull shrugged, “you’d have to ask him if you really want to know. My impression is it’s a no-go because two men can’t make a baby, but there seems to be more to it than that.” He scratched the base of one horn. “We don’t do any of this family stuff under the Qun, so it’s not really my area.”

Evelyn sat for a minute, chewing on her lip. Then, with great gravitas: “I’m telling Cullen he can’t do any stupid abomination tests.”

And, for whatever reason, that seemed to settle it for her.

\--

Dorian ran, and ran, and ran.

On foot through the city at night—bleeding, no doubt, but he felt none of that at the moment. He could hear the distant shouts of House Pavus’ guards—those he hadn’t killed—and all he could do was run, darting through alleyways, trying his best to lose them, not give away his destination.

It was two hours of cat-and-mouse in the dark city of Qarinus before dawn began to touch the sky with grey light. Laborers and slaves were about already, and Dorian had reached the docks. He stayed hidden, clinging to his staff; the city guard would be alerted by now.

Eyes scanning, Dorian studied the ships preparing to sail. Fishing boats—no. They’d be back here at nightfall. Ships set to travel, that’s what he needed. Ships that would be under way very soon.

He picked one. Who knew or cared where it was headed? He snuck through the shadows, close, and Fade-stepped on board, crouched and hid and slipped below when no one was watching.

Wounds throbbing, stomach already turning slightly at the rocking motion under him—or perhaps at the memories, the vision of a bound slave, the preparations… _No._ He squeezed his eyes shut. _Not now, not yet._ Get away, get away, then he’d face what his father had…

_No._

\--

An hour at sea, a sailor found Dorian because he was throwing up loudly behind some crates. He was all but carried up on deck to the captain, where the fresh air almost helped…and then he saw the heaving waves and crumpled into another bout of retching.

“The devil is the matter with yeh, lordling?” A gravel voice barked. “Stowin’ away a’ my ship, an’ no stomach fer the sea? The hell yeh plannin’? I’da booked yeh passage, sure’s yeh can afford it, lordling.”

Dorian weakly drew away from the ship’s railing and managed, “My…apologies. I required considerable…expedience for my journey. I’ll gladly discuss passage with you now…or…” He gagged. “Perhaps in a moment…”

It took half an hour more before he could right himself with the help of his staff, now more like a cane, and only because he was too empty and exhausted to even gag anymore. He found the impatient but resigned captain and offered him an emerald ring in exchange for passage to… “Actually, where _is_ this ship headed?” he asked blearily.

The grizzled old fellow gaped at him a moment. Then he sighed. “We make fer th’ Marches by way o’ Rivain, lordling, and this’ll take yeh as far as yeh like.”

“Thank you, I accept.”

A skeptical look. “Narry a cabin for yeh, master. We’ll set a bunk wi’ th’ hands fer yeh.”

Dorian nodded. It would do. It would have to.

\--

In the middle of the night, a sudden shout and the pounding of feet, followed almost at once by a loud sound—like a splash, a crack of thunder, an explosion, perhaps, that shuddered the timbers of the vessel. Dorian jumped up. “What is it? What’s happening?”

No one even looked at him. All hands were flooding up onto the deck, and Dorian followed. The captain was bellowing in his accent so thick that Dorian gained no clarity whatsoever on the situation from trying to listen. What _did_ give him a hint was the sight of weapons. 

_Maker, no_.

On wobbling legs, he made it to the captain, grabbed the man’s burly arm, and demanded, “What is it? An attack?”

“Dreadnought!” The old main growled at him, pointing. “Yonder.”

Dorian looked into the dark and saw lights floating, and a shape limned with the reflection of lanterns. A dark gap in the stars just above the horizon.

_Qunari._

Without another word, he made a dash below decks for his staff.

“Aye,” the captain yelled when Dorian returned, “make yerself useful, lordling! Yonder’s yer target!”

It was clearer now, moonlight slivering from behind the clouds touching the wicked-looking prow. It was headed for them, like a specter of death on the black water.

“Whenever yeh please, master!” The captain snarled.

“It’s too far!” Dorian shouted back, then immediately had to shout again, his first answer drowned by the splash of a cannonball, far too close to their prow. “They’re out of range! I can’t cast spells that far!”

“Well, they’ll nay come nearer!” the captain snapped back. “They’ll sink us from there, mark me!”

Feeling sicker than ever, Dorian scrambled. He gathered the Fade and ran to the ship’s side, inserting himself forcefully among the sailors, most of whom were now archers, lighting flaming arrows. One nearly punched him before he saw what Dorian was doing—casting a spell on the arrow. The fire took on a Fade-lit green. It would be almost impossible to put out. “There. Fire that.” Then he turned to do another.

The enchanted arrows might have helped, but the dreadnought was faster, and armed to the teeth. Really, there was no standing up to Qunari cannons. Dorian wasn’t surprised when the captain almost immediately turned tail and called for full canvas.

He rushed back to the man. “It’s too late! We can’t outrun a dreadnought that’s already this close!”

“Then we run aground, lordling, and if they follow us, yeh’ll have the range to fight back!”

_Run aground? Where?_ Dorian had no idea of their location. “Are you mad? You’ll wreck the ship!”

“An’ live, maybe, with sand t’ stand upon! Git aft an’ hold on!”

So Dorian clung to the railing with all his might, crouched low, and watched helplessly as the massive ship slipped closer, eerily silent compared to the din aboard his own ship. A volley shredded one of their sails, and another nearly sundered the mainmast, and Dorian squeezed his eyes shut and prayed they were close.

One never realized how fast a ship was moving until it suddenly hit a dead stop. Despite Dorian’s death grip on the railing, he was thrown forward, his arms no match for the force. He slammed into something wooden and unmoving and lost a moment or two of time, stunned. Then he shook himself. Shouts, running—and the ship was pitched at an odd angle and no longer moving. He pulled himself up and ran forward.

Ships were also taller than they seemed. It was a good twenty-foot drop to the beach. Sailors were leaping into the water and splashing ashore, and Dorian did likewise. A glance back showed lights separating from the main shape of the dreadnought. Landing boats.

In minutes, it was chaos.

Dorian had to admit, the solid ground under them was an advantage, at least for him. And he _did_ have targets in range, now. He drew back a little to rain fire and lightning down on the attacking Qunari, illuminating the beach in red-gold and white, by turns. He saw horned giants overpowering the sailors. He saw…less blood than he expected. The Qunari knocked the sailors out or incapacitated them more than anything else. And they did it quickly, efficiently—not because the sailors were poor fighters, but because the Qunari were fearless. Methodical.

There was ice in Dorian’s gut—pure terror. The sand became slick with ice, puddles of it rising to enclose legs, slow the horrible advance of certain doom. They’d seen him, they were coming closer…!

Out of nowhere, Dorian was suddenly enveloped in fog. It must have come from behind him, from the…the tree line. Jungle? _Jungle…it can’t be…_

__The battle was suddenly invisible, nothing but disassociated sounds, sudden and unpredictable. Dorian had no target, and no idea how close the attackers were. Or were they behind him? This was no natural fog…

He must have only been frozen in fear for a moment, but it felt like an eternity. Then, a shadow just ahead and to his right—moving as though it had just walked right by him, within two feet. It slipped toward the battlefield silently and vanished again.

The chaotic sounds changed. No longer shouts of confusion and challenge and clashing weapons. A deep voice calling out unknown words, and moments later—a scream. 

Then more screams. No—not just screams. There was a very great difference between a scream of pain and the voice of a man dying.

The beach was a field of death—invisible, but loud.

Dorian gathered _fear_.

It was as instinctive as accidentally heating something when one was filled with rage. His magic became the frame, and his own fear poured outward—the spell had no aim, but there was no one on the beach he didn’t want to hit, now.

There were a few screams of terror, but most of all there were wild sounds, like feral animals caught in a trap. Dorian channeled and channeled and then…

A sudden shadow, charging at him. Blind, unseeing, it plowed right into him, sending him straight onto his back. There was a crack—his skull, a rock. Darkness.

\--

A flicker—sudden brightness like daylight, a sound so loud the world shook, the ground threw him upward. Then a thud. Back to darkness.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian jolted awake. At first, there was nothing but the dull throb of his head—that, and puzzlement over where he was and why he’d awakened.

Then, realization.

The fog was blowing away in the breeze, the first light of dawn touching the sky. He couldn’t have been out too long.

There were shadows. Movement.

Shapes moving along the beach, bending over here and there. Dorian didn’t know who the victors were, but he knew the distant echoes of language were foreign to his ears. He scrabbled in the sand, rolling to his knees. Hands locked around his staff. Pushing himself up. The black and formless jungle in front of him.

_Seheron_.

He stumbled toward the tree line, and only glanced back once. There were no ships on the water, nothing but wreckage and carnage on the sand. Then he heard a shout, and blindly, he turned and ran.

\--

The Herald of Andraste could bluff, and Dorian could make a dramatically timed entrance. He thought, between the two of them, the distraction was going swimmingly. And it did—they had Alexius cornered. _Perfect_.

And then he whipped out that _damned amulet_ and things took a swift turn for the worst.

When the blinding light faded, Dorian shook his head and registered several things at once:

1\. He was standing in water.

2\. His ears were ringing and his head was throbbing.

3\. Evelyn Trevelyan was splashing to her feet, gripping her head, and making use of a vocabulary Dorian wouldn’t have guessed she possessed.

“What _happened?_ ”

Getting his bearings, Dorian concluded _time travel_. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you,” he offered with his most charming smile, and Evelyn grimaced.

“Protect my _head_. Maker, who bludgeoned me?”

“It’s probably the red lyrium,” Dorian suggested, pointing to the nearest sinister glow. “I feel the same way. I wonder if it makes non-mages as miserable?”

“We can ask my companions, if we ever find them in this mess. Shouldn’t they be here with us?”

“If they were close enough to be pulled through the Rift, they should be nearby,” he agreed. They began exploring—and fighting—but the hope of finding the Qunari or the dwarf faded quickly. Not that Dorian said as much. The Herald seemed very keen on her people. He didn’t want to discourage her.

And he didn’t want to tell her anything too upsetting about those people, either. But it came up, in short order—of course it did.

“So we never got around to discussing how you know Bull.”

They hadn’t, in their brief exchanges so far, but Dorian was aware that, while his own opportunities to talk to the Herald had been limited, the Qunari’s had not. And he was already one of her people. It was safe to assume it had come up. It was likely that she was more inclined to believe the Qunari’s story over Dorian’s—Dorian, after all, was so far a stranger. And the Qunari had made it clear that he believed that they had never met.

She might be bringing it up in a way that made it sound like she bought the story, but Dorian had to assume she at least doubted him.

So—how much to reveal? How much to conceal?

Most of all, he supposed, the goal was probably to earn her trust. They had a common cause; he had no wish to make her an enemy. But the truth could make someone your enemy—that was often why people lied. Or told only part of the truth.

But Dorian didn’t _want_ to lie. Not to her. He was already faced with the possibility that he would have to hide things from the Qunari again—the _Ben-Hassrath_ , rather.

He liked to stand opposite his enemies, not beside them. One of the South’s few luxuries.

So, in a gamble, he cut right to the heart of things.

“We did seem to get a bit sidetracked from that point, didn’t we?” A friendly smile. “I apologize for that. Too many disasters at once, these days.”

She snorted. Not ladylike. A good sign—dropping appearances around him was positive. “You can say that again.”

Dorian rattled a door handle, but it was stuck. It felt blocked form the other side. Evelyn had better luck with the door she tried. “Well, my lady, I could tell you the story, but if I might venture a guess, I imagine your friend Iron Bull has already told you that I’m lying, yes?” He made a _what-can-you-do_ gesture. “So either you’ll want to believe me, and my telling you the whole story will only create a troubling conflict for you, or you won’t believe me at all and the telling will be a waste of time for both of us.”

She paused, straightening from a chest she’d been rummaging through. “Well. He didn’t say you were _lying_.”

“No?”

A shrug. “He said you were _wrong_ , but that doesn’t mean _lying_. You could be mistaken.”

Dorian quieted, smoothing his hands down the side of his staff. “I’m not. I’m not mistaken, I’m afraid. The person I knew is absolutely him.”

“Oh.”

He smiled. _Charmingly_. “Which means, of course, that I’m lying. Or _he_ is. Or…” At this, Dorian’s smile faded in the face of the one possibility that had been haunting him since that first denial. “Or something happened to him. To his memory. Something he’s not aware of himself.”

Evelyn thought for a moment. “He’s never told me about any traumatic head injuries. Maybe he just forgot?”

She was reaching out, Dorian knew. It was a sign—she _did_ want to believe him. That was…encouraging, at least. “I’m afraid that’s unlikely,” he answered sadly. “There’s quite a bit more to it than a brief meeting one might easily forget.”

She bit her lip. “Well…then tell me the story? Your side of it, at least. I’ll try not to doubt you or get too conflicted about it.” She offered an encouraging smile.

In keeping with the spirit of peace offerings, Dorian nodded. “Has he told you anything about his time serving the Qun on Seheron?”

Evelyn frowned as she opened another door. “Some. Nothing in detail, although he said it was awful. Lots of fighting, bad things happening. I didn’t want to press him. He told me more about coming south after reeducation.”

Dorian froze. Even the breath in his lungs was stuck for a moment. Evelyn turned to look at him, and Dorian swallowed. “Reeducation?”

She gave him a confused look. “Yes, of course…oh. I guess you wouldn’t know, if you knew him before that.”

Eyes burning slightly— _probably the red lyrium_ —Dorian blinked. “Would you mind very much…telling me what he told you?”

Looking a little reluctant, Evelyn offered, “Well…I guess he doesn’t hide it. He said that after almost ten years, one day he just couldn’t bring himself to do his job anymore. So he turned himself in. He…didn’t want to go savage and hurt people. He didn’t tell me anything else about reeducation itself, only that after, they sent him south, acting as a mercenary.”

“I see.” It came out as nothing more than a whisper.

“Is that…wrong?”

Dorian smiled weakly. “I’m afraid I don’t know everything that happened, my lady. But I can say, at least, that he did _not_ turn himself in.”

“Maker…what did he—”

A droning, deep singing interrupted them.

It was the Qunari. Hissrad. The one now called Iron Bull.

He was shot through with red, painful shards of it poking through his skin.

“Hissrad…” Dorian breathed. Then— _No. This one is…not him. This is Iron Bull._

Their conversation about the distant past dropped away in favor of the more pressing discussion of what to do now, in the future…to save the recent past. The Iron Bull did not appreciate the confusing back-and-forth about time. He growled and followed, seeming to care about little beyond finding a good fight.

Or dying in a good fight.

Evelyn gave him a _look_ , and a glance at Iron Bull’s back, and Dorian nodded. _I know. The rest, later._

They found others. Evelyn talked with them. Dorian chimed in, but after they had released Varric from his cell, he began to hang back. He matched his stride to Iron Bull’s. There was no reason to. They were not friends, after all. It was only…Dorian had just met Varric, and this was his third meeting with the Herald. Whether Iron Bull remembered it or not, he felt more familiar to Dorian. And this place was a nightmare, and his head hurt exquisitely.

The Qunari said nothing to him for quite a while. Only after they’d found Leliana and were following the husk of rage that was once a woman—then he spoke.

“Hey.”

“Yes?” Dorian glanced up, but tried not to look long. It hurt just to _see_ the condition Iron Bull was in.

“I remember now.”

Dorian’s stomach dropped. “You…do?”

A grunt of affirmation “Mmh.” Then: “Red lyrium gets in your head, pulls everything apart, slowly. Pulls out the stitches, and the patches fall off. You can see into those holes again.” His hand twitched—the one with the short fingers. “It’s hard to sort it all out, put it back in the right order. But I got some of it back. Maybe all. I don’t know.”

In a few short words, the whole frame of the world had shifted.

Dorian knew his face was set in his most placid mask; knew, just as surely, that he needn’t have bothered. “Well.” He swallowed. Then again. Then, softly: “Do you remember the night of the blood moons?”

One eye—only one, now—turned and looked at him. “Yeah.”

“Then you remember enough,” Dorian whispered.

They walked on in silence. Fought in silence. But they were silent _together_. They had done this before.

Beyond the door, a moment before parting: “Hey.” Dorian looked up, and he knew there was pain in his eyes. _Just like last time_. “The other me. From your time. I know you want him to remember.”

“Clever you,” he managed, throat hoarse.

“You shouldn’t.”

That was a knife to his stomach, surely. “What?”

“It’s more than just you. It’s a lot of things. Don’t push him. He’s not like the guy you remember.” Iron Bull stepped back, hefted his axe. “Watch yourself.”

Dorian nodded, mouth framing an answer he couldn’t put voice into.

Then he was watching a red-studded back walk away. A door shut.

And he turned himself to the amulet and put aside all else. This was to save the world.

\--

There was someone in this jungle with him.

Day had dawned, but under the canopy one could hardly tell. He understood why within an hour, when a downpour opened up—a dark day in a thick jungle. Barely day at all. He crept through a kind of twilight, soaked and in pain. Lost.

Dorian crouched in the partly hollow carcass of a fallen tree and tried to calm himself, to breathe…and that was when he heard the rustle in the underbrush.

Predators didn’t rustle.

He froze, and his wide-peeled eyes scanned and scanned, but the thick greenery was all around him, and over all that was the haze and the rain. He tried to guess where it had come from and crawled in the opposite direction.

For five minutes, he thought he had gotten away. Then someone appeared as if from nowhere and nearly stepped on him.

Dorian bolted.

The person behind him made a soft grunt of surprise, but no more than that, and then they were in hot pursuit.

Dorian ran, and ran, and ran.

Vines tripped him, tangled his robes—he tore frantically, but couldn’t get away. Only for a moment. The rustling was closing fast. He turned, located the pursuer, hand outstretched…

A bolt of lightning thrown straight at that hand couldn’t miss.

There was a bitten-off shout of pain.

_Horns._

Dorian threw fire and fear, little remembering that it was raining. The fire lost much of its power to the downpour, but it didn’t fizzle entirely—a testament to how much power Dorian had put into it.

_Qunari. Danger!_

The fear spell, fueled by his own panic again, hit the target dead-on.

The creature barely paused. It slapped the flames away, growling, and then it reached Dorian and tore his staff out of his hands. His arms were contained in an instant, and they both went down. He kicked; the Qunari rolled. They went under a large-leafed bush—even darker, the earth almost bare of leaves; few made it under here.

A massive hand clamped over his mouth and nose, and Dorian felt a grip at his neck. Then, “ _Stop it._ ” Whispered right in his ear. The shock of understanding the words made him obey without thinking. He froze. “ _Don’t move. I’ll snap your neck. I’d rather kill you than let them find me._ ”

The voice was soft, but frighteningly deep. Frightening, too, knowing it was a Qunari who had him pinned. Dorian hung between death and…a fate perhaps worse than death. _Saarebas._ Maybe he should just make the beast kill him now, quick and painless.

_Footsteps._

They were quiet. They were _close._ So close that a minute later Dorian could hear harsh breathing…then muttered speech. Again, foreign words—but the pattern of them felt off. Wrong, somehow. As if they weren’t being strung together fluidly…or as if those speaking struggled to articulate themselves.

Feet passed his line of sight, under the bush. They were bare, and covered in drying blood. They were also huge and bronze-colored.

Dorian held still.

He didn’t move, he barely _breathed_ , for what felt like hours. He lay there, soaked, injuries throbbing. At length, he became aware of something—a shift, a change in his captor. His breathing had evened out…become deep and slow. Like…sleep?

Carefully, Dorian tried to shift. The grip on him immediately tightened, just enough to warn. Then that deep voice in his ear again: “Not asleep, Vint. Just putting the pain aside.”

_Pain? …Oh, the hand, probably._

The silence stretched again.

Dorian considered his chances.

He was on Seheron. He was essentially captured by a Qunari, unless he could kill it somehow. It hadn’t killed _him_ yet, which was curious, but one could possibly assume that if one was held in a headlock that hadn’t resulted in a broken neck _yet_ , the beast would probably _release_ the headlock at some point, giving him a chance to act.

Then…what to do? 

If he could get back to the beach…well, there was no more ship. _Very well_. If he knew what part of the island he was on… _We were headed for Rivain…_ The Ventosus Straits were the narrowest strip of sea between Tevinter and Seheron, but they would have been sailing away from them in leaving Qarinus. Still, if he could move south along the beach until he found the Eyes of Nocen…

_Well, then it’s only a near-twenty-mile swim back home. Lovely._

Dorian contemplated the _saarebas_ , and debated in his mind which was worse—that, or the blood magic ritual his father had planned.

At last, the Qunari moved. Deep voice in his ear again. “Okay, Vint—listen. You were the mage on the beach last night, so here’s the situation. Your ship is splinters and her crew is dead, and your captain picked a shitty part of the island to run aground on. We’re surrounded by fog warriors and Tal-Vashoth, both killing each other, and both real fucking happy to kill you and me on sight. You start throwing magic again and fighting me, you’ll bring one or the other down on us, got it? Then we’re both dead.” A pause. “Tap with your right hand twice if you get it.”

Dorian’s right arm was pinned in a way that left his hand free, just barely able to touch the Qunari’s arm. He tapped.

“Okay. Good.” A pause. The Qunari’s breath smelled like… _banana?_

_What a stupid thing to notice, Dorian Pavus._

“I’m going to let you go in a minute, Vint. And you’re going to promise to follow me and do as I say. We can get to a cave and have a chat, okay?” The hand covering his mouth loosened slightly, two fingers peeling back.

“Fine,” Dorian answered through gritted teeth. “If you insist.”

A snort. “Yeah. Okay.” The Qunari loosened his hold. “Welcome to Seheron, Vint.” Dorian scooted away from him as fast as he could, but the beast kept a hand on the back of his neck. “Follow me.”

Stomach churning, Dorian followed.

\--

“You’ll have to do better than that!”

Years of training kept Bull from jumping at the sudden reappearance of the Herald and the Vint. They’d vanished just long enough for everyone to register it and feel the first hint of panic—now _boom_ , back again, the Vint as full of swagger as ever, the Herald looking like she was taking her first deep breath in an hour.

Both of them covered in blood, which they hadn’t been a second ago. _That_ was alarming. Bull scanned them both—no visible injuries that could account for all that. _So whose blood is it?_

The magister crumpled in defeat.

There was still a pile of shit to wade through in the aftermath, and a pissed-off king of Ferelden to deal with. The Herald warmly and proudly welcomed the mages to an alliance—not what Bull would have done, but he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

Then they had a shit-ton of mages to organize for the journey. In the middle of it all, the Vint and his Vint buddy pulled away from everyone else. Bull watched them talking at length and thought, _Bad idea_. Circumstances had validated their assistance for now, but that didn’t mean they were solid allies. They could very well be making secret plans. The boss should really be more cautious.

The boss, however, was extremely overwhelmed at the moment, trying to get the rebels out of Redcliff and placate the Fereldens and make nice with royalty while nobody at all helped her out. Bull stepped in and started directing travel arrangements and negotiating with merchants in Redcliff to cough up some supplies to speed the rebellion on their way. He had to leave the Vints to themselves, for now. Nothing he could do about it but keep watch.

\--

“Cave” was not the word Dorian would have chosen. “Mud hollow” or “hole in the side of a muddy bank of mud” would better conjure the correct image. But there was room to sit up, if not stand.

There was room for the Qunari, too, though his horns scraped in the dirt even when he hunched.

Dorian moved as far from him as the space would allow, staff gripped tightly in one hand, other hand free and ready for anything.

“Hey, easy,” the Qunari said, hands extended in a peaceful gesture. It was then Dorian noticed the two stumps on one of them. He blinked. The Qunari didn’t flinch, kept his eyes on Dorian’s face and hands. “Yeah, good shot with the lightning back there. Did a pretty neat job cauterizing them and everything. Real sweet of you, when I was only trying to save your ass.”

Eyes flicking between the Qunari’s sharply angled features and the swollen, charred stumps of his lost fingers, Dorian bit out in a light and airy tone, “Oh yes, of course. You were _rescuing_ me, I might have known. Like your dreadnought was only _rescuing_ my ship from the dreadful fate of being afloat.”

The Qunari sighed. “Can we just skip past all that for a minute and say ‘shit’s fucked, nothing went the way it was supposed to,’ so we can move on to what happens now?”

A moment of thought. Then, tightly, “Yes. _Let’s_.”

Dorian arched an expectant eyebrow at the Qunari, as if to say _do go on_. He also noticed at this point that the enormous beast was wearing little more than a loincloth. _Wonderful_. That was an unnerving amount of hostile bare muscle to be in such close quarters with.

A studying, long look. “Okay. If we’re very careful, we can get out of this area. We’ll have to go through the jungle. Probably take at least a day; two, if we meet enemies and have to take another route. But if all that works out, we’ll survive.”

“And then you put one of those charming collars on me and sew my mouth shut? It all seems like a waste of effort for me.” Dorian hadn’t lowered his staff in the slightest.

The mountain of muscle regarded him, eyes intent. “You’re not going to believe this,” he began slowly, “but I won’t do that. You’ll be safe with me.”

Dorian gave him a tight smile. “Clever you. I didn’t believe that at all.”

The Qunari shifted slowly, sinking into a more comfortable—and less ready and defensible—position. “Look, you’re a mage, right? Those clothes are too nice for _laetan_. You a magister?”

For answer, Dorian arched one eyebrow severely. As if he would tell an enemy _that_.

A sigh. “All right, mage. Here—my name is Hissrad. I’m…well, the job description is Qunlat, so let’s just say I’m pretty much in charge. How much of the island that applies to changes every damn day, but anybody who could give me orders is back in Par Vollen, got it? So if I say you’re safe, you’re safe.”

“Or…you’re _lying_ ,” Dorian pointed out, as if speaking to an incredibly thick person.

“ _Or_ ,” the Qunari insisted, “you’ll be fine with me because you’re a valuable _prisoner_ we can _exchange_ with the Vints.”

Dorian scoffed. “As if the Qun would let a Tevinter mage walk free. Prisoner exchanges? Don’t be tiresome. The Qun doesn’t place enough value on individuals to want any captives back; certainly not at the cost of letting a _bas saarebas_ go free.”

A slow nod. “You’re right—that’s pretty much the Qun, and in Par Vollen that would be true. But this isn’t Par Vollen. We do what we have to around here—whatever saves lives and fixes problems. I’ve lost some good people lately. I’d like them back. If you’re a magister, you’re worth your weight in gold. Don’t try to kill me, and I’ll take care of you. Kill me, and you’ll probably never get off this island. Clear?”

That…sounded sincere. _Odd._ Dorian considered for a long moment. Then: “…I’m not a magister.”

“No? But you’re nobility?”

Calculating… “I have a birthright. My father is the magister.” _And I his only heir_ , he didn’t say.

“Okay. Good.” Then: “What’s your name?”

Another pause. “…Dorian.” Then, before the Qunari, Hissrad, could continue: “However, you seem to have made a faulty assumption about me.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“I don’t particularly want to go back to Tevinter.”

\--

It was a slow trip back to Haven—cold, too, and getting colder as they climbed the mountains. Still, once they got going, the Herald was able to get her party together and give them a little summary of where she and the Vint disappeared to for all of two seconds.

Or…more than two seconds, for them.

Bull caught some looks passing between her and the Vint. He couldn’t guess the meaning of them, except it was clear that things between them had changed a bit. Evelyn didn’t put up a polite face for him anymore. And Bull caught a snippet, once—barely a conversation, but _something_.

“I heard, you know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to listen, but I did hear a little.”

“That’s…quite all right.” A pause. Then: “Just as well, actually.”

A steady look. “You can tell me.”

“I will. When we get back.”

When they got back, however, the advisors were waiting for them. Cullen didn’t look too thrilled. Evelyn squared her shoulders and headed into the Chantry. The Vint was still dismounting, and he hesitated for a moment. Almost looked like he was coming over to talk to Bull—then Krem came up, and Pavus seemed to change his mind. He followed the Herald into the Chantry, and Bull turned his attention to Krem—and the fun job of figuring out where to put all these damn rebel mages.

\--

Cullen came out of the meeting like a thundercloud and went straight to work on the mages. The Chargers had been putting up new tents and organizing an extension of the Inquisition’s camps to house them, and he reported on their progress to Cullen. The next step, according to the Commander, was to check for abominations—a task Bull was glad he couldn’t help with—and then assess how many trained mages they had on hand and organize them.

There were only a handful of former Templars and Cullen himself, so the abomination tests took a long time. Madam de Fer took charge of assessing skill levels and determining who could be trained to assault the Breach. First Enchanter Fiona fought her on almost every decision. Solas hung back, observing, with the understanding that when they’d sorted the people into classes, he’d help train them up—but he was wise enough not to step into the cat fight in the meantime.

Bull didn’t see much of Pavus in the chaos. He probably could have helped—if people would let him. Probably a good idea he made himself scarce and didn’t try to tell anyone what to do.

The Herald stayed determinedly in the Chantry with Josephine, Minaeve, and Mother Giselle. Cullen stayed determinedly _out_ of the Chantry and worked until he looked like he might drop dead standing up.

“Cullen, hey. Can I borrow you for a second?”

Dazed, bleary: “Hmm? Yes, be right there.”

Bull pulled the guy into the apothecary. He needed a break, but Bull knew guys like this—take him into the tavern and he’d barely sit down, and he’d be out again in five minutes. Adan was buried in a pile of papers and ignored their presence. Bull offered the Commander a steaming mug.

“What’s this?”

“Chicory tea,” he explained. “Nice and strong. Give you a good second wind. Drink up.”

If anything was proof how tired the Commander was, it was his silent acceptance of the tea.

Bull had a flask, and he sat silently, letting the Commander drink.

Cullen rubbed his temples and brow. “Sorry…you needed something?”

“Yeah, but it can wait. Finish that first.”

A nod, and it was a while before Cullen spoke again. When he did, it was a sigh: “Templars would have been so much easier.”

“Mm?”

“They can set up their own camp. They don’t need to be checked for demon possession. They wouldn’t have untrained children among them. They _take care of themselves_. She could have at least tried…”

“Mmm.”

“I realize she may not have the best memories of the Circle, but we need to…need to put aside our pasts, now. For the sake of the Inquisition. At least until we’ve dealt with the Breach…”

“Sure.”

“And for the Maker’s sake, bringing a Tevinter into all this and welcoming him with open arms! Even I can see how damaging this could be for the Inquisition’s reputation, but she won’t hear a single word against him now. And she was as suspicious as anyone when he first showed up.”

There was a real cloud in Cullen’s eyes at that one—and, Bull knew, people often built up to the worst stuff when they were listing their grievances. Bull studied the man. _Bas_ emotions didn’t always make sense, but Bull had learned to read some of the signs. _Maybe…_

“She’s not smitten, you know.”

“What?”

Bull smiled. “They had each other’s backs in a dangerous spot in Redcliff. Probably saved each other’s lives; I don’t know, wasn’t there. But that kind of shit makes people trust each other quicker. That’s all it is, though.”

Cullen didn’t look convinced. “You say that, but I’ve seen how young ladies react to a dashing gentleman. Templars in Kirkwall weren’t as secluded as in Ferelden.”

Bull hesitated. Then, gently, “You know he’s only attracted to men, right?”

Blinking. Sitting up. “What?”

_Oh, for shit’s…_ “She knows it too, Cullen.”

Cullen looked confused, lost, and hopeful all at once. “Are we both talking about—”

“The Vint? Dorian Pavus? Yeah.” At Cullen’s wide-eyed look, Bull sighed. “You didn’t notice him giving you the once-over? And then the second look?”

“I, uh…what?”

“All right, I guess you would have missed him checking out your ass…” Cullen’s wide eyes peeled wider, his jaw dropping, “…but you seriously didn’t notice him smiling at your second-in-command?”

Slowly, Cullen set his cup on the nearby table. “Now that you mention it…he did seem to lean in quite close, during the meetings in the war room. And smile…but he smiled at everyone…”

“Didn’t lean close to Josephine though, did he? Or Red.”

“…No.”

“Or Trevelyan.”

“…Ah.”

Bull grinned. “Don’t worry, Commander. You’ve been real busy. Got a Breach on your mind. It’s understandable.”

The tips of Cullen’s ears, and the back of his neck—what showed through the feathers, anyway—were pink. “But you say the Herald knows?”

Bull shrugged. “Well. She could see him eying your ass. It was pretty hard to miss.”

Cullen shut his eyes for a long moment. Finally: “That’s…good to know. Thank you for the…tea, Iron Bull. This chat has been most helpful.”

He got up and, in a word, _fled_. Stopped dead in the doorway, though, and turned back. “Oh! What did you need me for?”

Bull shook his head, grinning, and waved him off. “Not that important. I’ll catch you later. Krem’s expecting me.”

Evelyn Trevelyan was going to like him a _lot_ when Bull told her about this.


	3. Chapter 3

The Herald took a sharp left coming out of the gates of Haven and made a beeline for Bull, pretending not to see the troops training. “Morning!”

“Morning, boss. How’s it going?”

She winced. “You tell me. How much fun are swamps?”

Bull blew out a slow breath. “Sounds like a job.”

“Yes.” She had to crane her head a bit to look up at him. “Did Krem and the Chargers get on the road all right?”

They’d headed for Therinfall a couple hours ago. “Yeah, they’re underway.”

“And there’s no more shelter-building to be done…for now at least, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Well, Cassandra’s staying here to keep an eye on the mages, as we _apparently_ don’t have _nearly_ enough Templars for the job, so I thought, since your company isn’t here, you’d be free to join me in the Fallow Mire.”

“That a description or the real name?”

“The _real name._ ” She winced. “Fereldens, honestly. What is _wrong_ with their narrow little minds.” She cleared her throat, keeping her attention pointedly on Bull. “Anyway. Some of our scouts have been captured by some crazy Avaar and we’ve got to save them. Sera’s coming, because I’m worried she’s going to start shooting our new allies, and Dorian, for the opposite reason—to keep _him_ safe.”

“Something happen?” Bull followed her as she turned toward the forge, probably to fix up their gear before the trip.

“No, nothing. Just people threatening. The townspeople are unhappy, and nearly all _our_ people too, and certain ambassadors have pointed out to me that the entire mage rebellion _plus_ a ‘magister’—even though he isn’t, technically—are a bit much for the average commoner to handle at once. So—out of sight, out of mind, hopefully.”

“Good plan, boss.” It would probably help things around here settle down. Downside was, Bull would have to trudge through a bog with the unknown Vint watching his back. Not great, but at least he’d have Sera back there too, with her arrows. With her fear of magic, she’d be hissing at Pavus like a mad cat and watching him like a hawk.

\--

The trip out to the Fallow Mire was an interesting one. The first time Bull had traveled with Sera, she’d told him where he could stick his Tome of Koslun, so to speak; she did something similar with Pavus and his magic, now. Bull had been witness to the last hostile hello she’d thrown at an upper-class mage, and was watching to see if the reaction would be similar.

“Now we can live together in peace and harmony.” Said with a smile that damn near never faded, so it was probably at least partly an act. But Pavus even bothering to put on his genteel act for Sera was more dignity than Madam de Fer had ever given her. It was an interesting piece to add to the puzzle—a Tevinter altus who met an elven street rat with nothing but her good aim going for her, and he treated her same as he treated everyone he met. Like a person.

Shortly after they established base camp and started fighting the undead, Pavus asked Sera about her arrows, got the classic dismissal “Your ass,” and gamely turned it into a joke rather than getting offended.

From about that point on, they were friends. With Sera, you were either good or bad, and she didn’t take long to make up her mind and she didn’t change it easily, and despite hating everything Pavus was and came from, she liked him in about a day.

That was…interesting. Bull had been watching—he always did, it was his job—and he’d noticed that Sera had a sense about people. Probably wasn’t aware of it herself. But she was sharp. Pavus and Madam de Fer looked like two magical peas in a fancy silk pod, on the surface. The Warden, Blackwall, certainly treated them as if they were exactly the same. But not Sera, with her good instincts.

Maybe there was something to the guy.

\--

Another corpse split cleanly in half with the swing of his axe. _Man, these things aren’t bad at all._ They were creepy and they stank, but they were already good and dead, so cutting them down was as uncomplicated as it got. They also came apart pretty easily, but they had enough substance that Bull’s axe made a satisfying _thunk_ every time.

Sure beat the demons.

There had been a few times, so far, when Bull was the only guy in the party to take point, but that was in the Hinterlands with Solas and either Varric or Sera. That was fighting bandits, mages, and Templars—sometimes angry wildlife. Stuff that was _real_.

It was shittier, here, being the only guy in the front when demons kept popping out of the ground and screaming like nothing alive ever could. It was shit for him, and it was double-shit because his _job_ was to keep the worst heat _off_ his less-heavily-armored companions, but demons could disappear and pop back up behind Sera without warning, and there wasn’t much Bull could do about it but kill them as fast as he could.

They lit some weird glowing beacon thing and were ass-deep in demons, and Bull was heading into that place where he didn’t _feel_ , where he was just empty and fighting and fighting, because otherwise he’d be getting a little freaked out. But then he sensed something—someone on his blind side. Not an enemy—backup.

He didn’t have time to turn and look. Too much going on in front of him. But his tension eased. The energy and _fun_ of fighting started to come back, despite the demons.

It was only when they were down to the last few and finishing them off that Bull was able to take stock and realize it wasn’t the boss or Sera, it was Pavus, slashing away with his staff blade even as he kept casting spells from right in the thick of things.

Evelyn shouted, “Dorian—” _Lightning bolt._ “—damn it! Robes aren’t that strong, get back a bit!”

The boss was trying to fight her way closer, clearly worried, and Bull put his axe through a wisp of color and was glad when it faded away. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like demons, didn’t like that he hadn’t realized Pavus was taking some of the heat off the boss and Sera…

Then he looked around and saw why the boss was making such a fuss. Pavus had a pretty serious gash in one arm. It had gone right through his robes, leaving the sleeve hanging in halves on either side of his bare and bloody shoulder. There was blood all down his arm, too. It was a pretty deep cut, though not, Bull quickly saw, deep enough to separate muscle or expose bone.

“Terribly clumsy of me,” he was sighing—or trying to. His voice was a little tight. The boss whipped out a potion and shoved it into his hands. She had some emergency bandages on hand too, and she doused those with a little more potion and started to wrap Pavus’ bloody arm.

“How does it feel?”

“I’ll be all right. It will help remind me to stay back a bit, yes?”

Evelyn’s face was set, her eyes worried. “We’re very close. Can you fight with it? As soon as we free our people, we’ll go right back to camp and I’ll be able to heal it properly.”

“He gunna be able to swing his stick thing around?” Sera cut in, peering. “Hand’s all wet and slippery.”

With a wince, Dorian tore off one of the ruined bits of his sleeve and began wiping his bloody hand off. “This should be fine. Never fear, the blood flow is slowing. Let’s not dawdle, however.”

So with grim determination, they moved on—as quickly as they could while avoiding the marsh water.

True to his promise, Pavus did a better job of keeping back as they attacked Hargrave Keep. When they faced the Avaar, however, he started sneaking in a little close again. Bull was trying to keep the big guy distracted and off the support, and Pavus should have stayed _back_ , damn it.

Fortunately, they won, and nobody got too hurt. They freed their people, who were in awe of the Herald coming to their rescue, and then started heading back, leading the scouts to the closest camp.

One scout had an injured leg. He staggered and almost fell—but Pavus was closest and caught him with his good arm. He tried to offer the man his shoulder, but when the fellow saw who was helping him he backed up quick, shaking out his arm like something unpleasant had got on it. Pavus’ polite expression didn’t even flicker. Bull came up and offered to help the guy instead, and when that was accepted, Pavus just bowed out—literally.

Back in camp, the boss took him into a tent and started carefully healing his arm. Bull busied himself helping the rescued scouts, but he found ways to stay close to the tent—close enough, at least, to catch some of what was said.

“…Starting to get the feeling there’s a little more to y— …neglected to mention.”

Silence, then a deeper voice murmuring too soft to be heard.

“Maybe not, but if _this_ is…—appen again, maybe it matters more than you…”

“ _No._ It doesn’t.” Not _louder_ , exactly, but very clearly articulated. “That is…I won’t let it.”

Bull heard Evelyn sigh, but he got called away at that point, so if there was any more, he missed it.

_Okay…something he didn’t tell her, when he was telling her something else, and it somehow affects his ability to fight and not get cut up, and he’s going to take care of it._

That was…ridiculously vague. A whole lot of nothing so far, damn.

It rained harder as night fell, and Trevelyan shared her tent with Pavus, putting Bull in the other one with Sera, so there was no opportunity to try conversation. It wasn’t like they could even keep a fire going, let alone sit around it.

The ride back to Skyhold was another opportunity—but a slim one. Trevelyan stuck pretty close to her new Vint most of the time, but still, there were moments after encountering bandits when she was busy. Bull managed to get himself conveniently near Pavus with no one else in earshot.

“How’s the arm?”

For a moment—just a flicker—as Pavus opened his mouth, he was…relaxed. Like it was nothing strange for Bull to ask, and his answer would come in a companionable tone.

Then his spine stiffened, just a little. Probably not visibly enough for most people to notice. His eyes cut over to Bull, and they were…uncertain. For an instant. Then they hardened. An elegant eyebrow arched. “ _Tolerable_ ,” Pavus articulated, with a _you peasant swine_ obviously implied in the tone. “Evelyn healed it quite well enough for normal use and battle. I should avoid lifting anything particularly heavy, but otherwise I am fine. Certainly not a _liability_ , at least.”

There was a very pointed emphasis in that last bit, as he looked at Bull. But Bull wasn’t injured. Hadn’t called Dorian a liability, either, so the sass was because… _Probably means the Ben-Hassrath thing._ Bull shrugged. Affability was his M.O., so he affably breezed past it.

“Good to hear. Probably lots of young fellas in Haven will be glad you’re fit for action, too.” He winked.

Without revealing anything in his expression, Dorian Pavus took a good fifteen seconds to answer that one. Then, with a disinterested sniff, “Doubtful. Most of them would prefer to hear that I’d been killed.”

Bull shrugged. “They’ll come around. You though—could have been a lot worse. Diving into demons like that, without real armor…you’ve either got shit instincts or too much battle lust. Better fix that.”

“Thank you, _General_. Is there anything else you would like to teach _me_ , a fabulously talented mage, about combat? By hitting me with a shield repeatedly, perhaps?”

Taking that in stride, Bull hummed. “Nothing like a thousand shield bashes for making you too tough to be knocked over by one.”

“Hah.” Pronounced flatly. Then, another careful glance. “And _you_ still swing at shoulder height. You ought to lower that on your left side and swing from your hip, now that you don’t have an eye on that side. Not everything _deadly_ is as tall as you are.” With that, he turned and strode off—a little hint of a smirk in it too, and a little bit of something in his walk that made it pretty hard to keep the eye from sliding down his back and lingering on that ass.

_Hot._

And still very mysterious. Lots of unknowns. No answers for the Ben-Hassrath. That was a problem. Still.

_“I’m deadly, now look at my ass”—yeah. That works for me._

\--

“I don’t particularly want to go back to Tevinter.”

“Oh yeah? You’d rather stay here?”

“Don’t be an imbecile,” Dorian snapped. “I ran away and took ship to escape Tevinter. Your plan to return me to my own people seems reasonable enough, except it’s a poor incentive, given what I’d be taken back to.”

Hissrad’s expression revealed little, but Dorian sensed annoyance from him. “I see. I guess between dying brutally and living a life of luxury…damn. Hard call to make.”

Dorian’s tone and expression slipped into the cool aloof he favored for masking _pure fury_. “I’ll thank you to set aside your presumptions and simply take my word. After all, you expect me to do the same.”

Sharp eyes studied him. “Okay. You don’t want to go home. That complicates the prisoner exchange, but we can deal with that. We might have to arrange a kidnapping, but if you work with me, I can get you on a ship to Rivain. How’s that?”

Looking less than thrilled, Dorian remarked, “Well, I was already _on_ a ship to Rivain when your delightful oversized barge intervened, and my fare was covered as far as the Free Marches…”

“How about I reimburse you for the difference by saving your damn life?” Hissrad interrupted, finally displaying a little of the impatience Dorian had rightly guessed he’d been hiding.

Dorian smirked. “As I’m an incredibly generous man, I’ll consider that equitable.” Finally, he shifted a little, feeling blood rush back into legs that had gone numb. “However, the moment you make the slightest move toward incapacitating me or my magic, I will kill you. Agreed?”

“Deal.” The giant shifted to turn his attention to the jungle outside their “cave.” “Let’s skip the handshake, though. I’ll keep the rest of my fingers to myself.”

“See that you do,” Dorian replied, wondering if he was supposed to have heard an innuendo in that or if it had been unintentional.

\--

Back in Haven, everyone was gearing up to take on the Breach. But that didn’t stop Evelyn from popping into the tavern after sundown to say hello.

She was a little more…hm. _Something,_ than usual. Smiling, sure, but something careful about it. Something inquisitive in her eyes.

And her casual act could use some polishing up.

“So, Bull…bet you’ll be glad when we get rid of the Breach?”

It was hard to be affable and laid-back about this topic, so he fell back on the foundation—simple guy. Simple job, simple pleasures, nothing to worry about. “You got that right, boss. Let’s kick the shit out of that demon fountain.” He raised his tankard to her.

“Will you be leaving us when it’s gone? I mean, will the Ben-Hassrath assign you somewhere else?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Wouldn’t be my guess, though. As long as the Inquisition is around, they’ll probably leave me in place. Those Venatori assholes will still be a problem too—we need to kick their asses all the way back to Tevinter.”

She laughed a little at that—ended in a tiny short, as usual. “Yes…you’ve fought Tevinters a lot, haven’t you? Ah, I’m glad you seem to be doing all right fighting alongside one, for once. I mean,” she glanced at him, “ _is_ it all right? That Dorian has joined us? Or should I not ask him along on missions when you’re coming with me?”

_So it’s something to do with Pavus…_ “No problem, boss. As long as he wants to kill the same bad guys we’re killing, I’m good.” He grinned. “And you bring him along all you like. I never mind a bit of eye candy on the job.”

In a mixture of shock and delight, she stared at him. “You’re terrible!”

“The worst.” He winked.

“Just watch yourself, or I’ll tell him you’re checking him out.”

_Heh._ “Pretty sure he already knows, boss.”

Her eyes were pretty easy to read, then— _hopeful_. An effort to be casual about it—probably the best she could manage, too, even though it just made everything more obvious. “So, um…do you _like_ him then?”

She was doing that thing with the emphasis. Bull had noticed that when his boys pulled that tone, they didn’t mean “liking” in the general sense. Still—“Sure, boss. I like just about everybody here. Not sure I _get_ Solas, yet, but we’re still good.”

“No, I mean—” _Classic._ Everyone followed up with these exact words. “—do you _like him_ like him? Are you attracted to him, interested in him?” Then she hurried to back-paddle. “I know it’s not really my business and if you don’t want to talk about it that’s really okay, I was just interested, and…”

“Boss.” Bull smiled. “I get it, it’s fine. I don’t mind the question, but I can’t say I see it the way you’re thinking. We don’t do romance under the Qun, or whatever you people call it when you mix friendship with sex.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “So…what _do_ you do?”

Bull shrugged and explained the tamassrans—didn’t take long, it was a pretty simple system. “We’re not supposed to go too often. Becomes a distraction. Couple times a week is expected; more when you’re younger, but they put you in the breeding rotation more often then too.”

“The breeding is a real thing?” Her eyes peeled wide. “I thought for _sure…_ ”

He grinned. “Nope, real thing. It’s not as weird as it probably seems to you.”

“But at least they…let you do it with someone you like, right? They wouldn’t force you into…that…with someone you hated?”

It was like trying to have a conversation when neither side spoke the other’s language, sometimes. Bull sighed. “That’s not a factor, boss. It’s almost always a stranger, and…I don’t know, feelings just don’t get into it. Maybe it’s not the case for everyone, but I can’t remember ever hating another Qunari. Definitely not a tamassran. The viddathari can get a little annoying sometimes…and I guess there might sometimes be a soldier I didn’t get along with too well, but that’s it. We’re all working together for everybody’s good. Take personal gain out of the equation, and you lose a lot of the reasons for hate.”

She was silent a minute, thinking. Then: “But you hate Vints?”

“Eh.” Bull shrugged. “Well, they’re different. They aren’t with us, they’re against us. They made Seheron the shithole it was. Without them, the place would have settled down just fine. But I don’t know. I don’t personally hate all Vints, but I’m good with killing the ones who are a problem.”

“So…you don’t hate Dorian, right?” That hopeful look was back.

Bull gave her a nice, friendly smile, silently noting the fixation on the topic. “Nah, boss. I don’t hate Dorian.” There had to be a reason she was so set on this. Probably something from one of her conversations with Pavus. “He’s a fussy guy, but you can’t blame him for that, with his background. And he’s fun to tease and _damn_ nice to look at. You keep him around if you want.” She would, too. Pavus had gotten into her good graces—scratch that, full-on _favor_ —in record time. Even faster than Bull had, and he’d been on a mission to do just that. Was Pavus also on assignment to get her to like him? What would a Tevinter-based agency want with some no-account mage girl being hailed as the Herald of Andraste? It wasn’t like the southern Chantry was bowing down to her, either.

Still, fact remained—Pavus got in good with her impressively fast. And she worried about the people she liked, always trying to help. So there was a good chance her wanting Bull to like Pavus was her way of helping him—possibly based on something he’d told her.

_Something to do with his story about having met me on Seheron?_

__His hand itched a little, and he rubbed the backs of his fingers against the wooden chair.

_If he’s claiming to have fought on Seheron and run into me there, the next note from the Ben-Hassrath should have his background. I can confirm or refute that. Can’t be much of a story though. Only Vints I knew there I met in battle. He could be blowing things out of proportion, saying I tried to kill him like it was personal…_ That didn’t sit right, though. It was possible, and he didn’t dismiss it, but it didn’t feel like the answer.

“Well, as long as Dorian is okay with being ogled, I’ll keep bringing you both along. Assuming we have more missions after the Breach. Probably will.” She made a face. “ _They_ keep finding more stuff they need me to do. Like I’m the best person to fight bandits and restore order. Usually _soldiers_ do that, but I guess _ours_ have some kind of _other_ work most of the time.”

Gently, Bull patted her shoulder. “Most of Cullen’s recruits are farmers who fight better with a shovel than a sword. Sneeze on them and they go down. You’re a kickass ball of dangerous magic, boss. You’re a better fighter, at least right now. And you’ve got me.” He winked. “Cullen will send his soldiers in when they’re ready. Trust me, he doesn’t want you out there in the field _all_ the time.”

She had been, lately—as much as possible. Bull hadn’t had a chance to talk to the Commander about it, but he had a gut feeling the guy missed having her around, even if they only pointedly ignored each other or fought.

With an expression of almost childish stubbornness, she grabbed her tankard. “No? Just _almost_ all the time, then. I see.”

Bull decided not to push her on that one—not right now. They had the Breach to deal with tomorrow, and now probably wasn’t a good time for her to start dealing with That Thing she was avoiding.

\--

Dorian would never have believed a creature of such size and bulk could move so smoothly through the tangle of the jungle.

Until now.

They moved quickly, but cautiously. Dorian tried to avoid the undergrowth as nimbly as Hissrad, and was mildly infuriated to find that he could not be as quick or as quiet. He blamed his rather cumbersome robes, but he was not about to abandon them—he hoped to live to see a future when _clothing_ would again be necessary. Loincloths might be the fashion on Seheron, but Dorian wasn’t keen to adopt the style.

Not that he had anything against it. He’d look delectable in a loincloth, obviously—if rather barbaric. Present company was certainly proof of _that_.

But that was all right. Qunari ought to look barbaric, it comfortably dehumanized them. Dorian felt like he was following a rather agile talking cow—which gave the whole miserable misadventure a fairytale sort of quality, really. Or perhaps it meant every minute of this horrible nightmare was exactly that—a nightmare. He’d wake, soon, and probably be hung over, but at least he’d know his father hadn’t really…

_No. Not now._

The agile talking cow suddenly turned to the side, moved a little further, then signaled Dorian to get down by a large tree with a tangle of roots and wait. Dorian crouched, waiting, and within a minute was being offered…a mango, apparently. “What’s this?”

“Food.” He stared at Hissrad for a moment. “Your stomach was growling,” the Qunari clarified. “Hang on to the skin and pit, we’ll bury them when you’re done eating so we can’t be tracked.”

_Well._

“All right,” Dorian nodded, slowly. It was true he hadn’t eaten since yesterday—poor ship’s fare, and not much of it either; he’d been too ill to keep food down.

Hissrad didn’t eat; he kept an eye out. Dorian found that oddly annoying. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’m good.”

Thoroughly unimpressed with the tough guy act, Dorian snorted. “As long as we’re pausing for one of us to eat, you might as well have a mango.”

That got him a glance. “That’s the Common word? Mango?”

“Yes, why?”

A faint headshake. “Nothing. I’ll remember. Didn’t know what you call those in Common. In Qunlat it’s…eh, you could say it translates literally to ‘juicy tits’ I guess.”

Dorian choked. Hissrad’s expression just barely cracked into the faintest grin. “It doesn’t sound the same to us as it probably does to you.”

“Maker’s breath.” He managed to swallow the… _no._ The _mango._ “Qunari are appalling in every possible way.”

“Qunlat’s a very expressive language,” Hissrad shrugged innocently. “I haven’t even told you what we call this other fruit. It’s long and curved and yellow…”

In horror, Dorian cut him off. “ _Bananas_ , in Common, and that’s quite all right, I don’t need to know what their Qunlat name means.”

Hissrad hummed. “Bananas. Got it, thanks.”

Dorian decided not to dignify this conversation with a reply.


	4. Chapter 4

Every mage with enough magical control to be a help and not a hindrance lined up in front of that creepy green thing. The other fighters, including Bull and his boys, stood by to guard against demons and to protect the defenseless mages, if need be.

Solas was with the Herald, but Fiona, Vivienne, and even the Vint joined the other mages to assist. The Breach went beyond prejudices—mostly. Bull was close enough to see a few of the mages nearest Pavus scoot away from him, trying to get a little distance without being noticed. He politely ignored them.

Then the order went out, and the mages did their thing. Bull couldn’t see any effect from them. He could see the Herald’s Mark, and could see it doing whatever she made it do to close Rifts. It did seem brighter than usual, and she looked like she was struggling to control it…and there was an overwhelming heaviness in the air for a moment there. Something making Bull’s ears ring…

And then an explosion about a hundred times bigger than the crack made by the average Rift. The Herald and those down on the ground were all thrown off their feet. Even up were Bull was, almost everyone was knocked on their asses. Pavus, he noticed, ducked into it and only went down to one knee. Bull staggered, but kept his feet.

Then, just like that, it was over. The demon fountain was gone. The people started cheering, and every pair of eyes was on the Herald, full of awe and adoration and excitement. _Must be tough, having all that pointed at you_.

They all started heading back into Haven in what rapidly turned into a celebratory parade. Somewhere along the way, Pavus drifted over toward him. “Well. That was fun.”

_What’s he after?_ Probably wanted to ask if Bull remembered that one time when they closed a Breach on Seheron together, or some shit. He grunted. He wasn’t into playing this game right now. He wasn’t into any dumb shit, really—they’d just closed the Breach! Bull wanted to enjoy the relief.

So, in the spirit of victory, he played nice. “How’s your knee?”

Pavus, it seemed, had another definition for “nice.” He smiled coldly. “Fine. I might have known nothing could knock over someone as fat as you,” he added briskly, before turning and striding off.

_That’s fine_ , Bull figured. _Pissed because I didn’t give him the opening he wanted for that game of his_. Well, whatever. He’d get over it, and the game would be back, and Bull would have more opportunities to gather facts and put together the reason why Pavus wanted him to doubt his memory.

His hand itched, in a phantom-pain kind of way. Bull frowned at the stumps where his fingers used to be. He knew about phantom pain; knew guys who had lost a limb and still felt it aching where there wasn’t anything there anymore. He’d never really had that—probably because they were just a couple fingers. Not even the most-used ones. And this wasn’t _pain_ , exactly. It was a light stinging that just itched, more than anything. But when he rubbed his other hand over the stumps, he felt like he was scratching a spot off to the side of where he wanted to scratch. No matter how he rubbed at his hand, nothing reached the itch.

_Shit_. 

Eh, fuck it. He’d get a drink—there was going to be a big party, starting _right now_ , it looked like—and the alcohol would numb everything over nicely.

\--

The Chargers were teaching Inquisition recruits their company song, and Bull watched Cullen watch Evelyn slip away from the party. He shifted his weight, like he was about to follow her and then changed his mind, and as he hesitated, Cassandra stepped up instead. She didn’t seem to notice the Commander’s indecision, and she sure as shit didn’t have any of her own.

Bull had a good view of pretty much everyone from here—everyone who hadn’t snuck off to the fringes of the party or gone inside or behind a building for a little privacy. So he also noticed someone else marking the Commander’s hesitation.

Pavus watched the Commander, a little sparkle of amusement in his eyes. It was a funny thing. Bull didn’t see such nice expressions on him much. A smile suited that face pretty damn nicely. And the amusement at the Commander’s internal war—they had that in common, didn’t they? Personality like that—if he and Pavus could ever get along, they’d probably… _really_ get along. Then Pavus glanced up and caught Bull’s gaze, and all thought and feeling vanished from his expression. _Damn, he’s good. Going to be a challenge._

A loud clanging—every gaze snapped up. Bull stood and half-turned, and there—lights on the side of the mountain. The Commander bolted toward the gates, and everyone started scrambling. The Herald reappeared, Cassandra on her heels, and waved Bull and the Vint to follow her.

Pounding on the gates drowned out Cullen’s shouts that there was no telling what this attacking force was, and then a voice was calling for them to open. The Herald stepped up, and Cullen grabbed her arm. “You can’t open that! It could be a trick!”

She glared at him, yanking her arm back. “Then you’d better draw your sword, Commander, and be ready just in case.”

Cullen’s jaw locked, but he did just that. Bull already had his axe in hand.

For a second, it looked like he’d need it. Then the armored guy fell, revealing a rag-clothed kid who couldn’t string sentences together too well, but “The Templars come to kill you” did give them the one detail they’d been missing.

That, and the fact that this was the Elder One they’d been hearing about. _Shit_.

Cullen ordered the action of what forces the Inquisition had, and then the Templars were upon them. Bull felt a tingle of a barrier on his skin, and just for that one moment, everything was familiar. Like he’d done this, exactly this, lived this exact moment once before.

Then they were fighting, and he forgot about it, charging into the thick of an attacking force of men who looked more like monsters now, Cassandra beside him, both of them swinging through flesh and crystal while fire and lightning and ice tore up their enemies. Cassandra made a point of shield bashing anyone stuck in place with ice, and Bull went for the guys on fire. Being on fire made people forget to block, and his axe took them out in one swing. It worked, even on the twisted, misshapen things they were fighting. It didn’t work much on demons, but demons had never been _people_.

Bull put that away. Those thoughts had no place on the battlefield.

They finally got the shitty trebuchet working and got their shot off. A huge blast of white covered much of the still-approaching army. Then…

A shriek, and a giant red explosion, and Bull was moving on instinct, but his mind was stuck on, _Damn…never thought anything could make a dragon look bad._

They kept fighting.

Evelyn nearly got herself killed trying to save people. And they lost ground. The Templars pushed them back and back until there was nowhere left to run but into the Chantry.

“Herald!” Cullen looked at her with relief in his eyes and despair in the rest of him. He gave her a run-down of their obviously fucked situation.

The weird kid had some details on what the Elder One was after—just Trevelyan, apparently—and Bull would have to remember to work out where he got his intel, if they survived long enough. 

“We’re dying, but we can choose how. Many don’t get that choice.”

Pavus spoke up then: “Some of us might prefer not to choose suicide at all!”

Cullen huffed. “We either take him out with us or he takes us and marches on unopposed!”

“You’re in a terrible rush to see nothing but death on all sides, Commander. For a Templar, you think like a blood mage!”

“Why, you…!”

Roderick interrupted. Presented that third option Pavus was after, too—run out the back door and up the mountain. Trevelyan bit her lip. “Well, Cullen? Can you get the people out?”

“It will take time.” He shook his head. “Time we do not have, I fear.”

“I’ll distract him.” All eyes turned to her. Evelyn took a deep breath. “I’ll slow him down somehow. Then I’ll trigger the avalanche when the people are clear.”

“No!” Cullen was viciously firm. “That’s suicide, you’ll never make it out alive! I won’t allow it!”

Pavus stood beside Evelyn. “You were quite willing to choose suicide for all of us a moment ago, Commander.”

“Exactly,” she snapped. “Why is it all right for _us_ to make that choice for all these people, but _I_ can’t make it for myself?”

“Uh, guys?” Bull spoke up. “Look, we don’t have time to argue. We’ve got to move.” He shrugged. “Sorry, Cullen.”

The plan was agreed upon, the Herald turned to go, and Bull caught Cullen’s last, pained look at her back as they headed back out of the Chantry.

Pretty weird, if he let himself think about it. Of all the things Bull had ever thought might kill him—or all the things that nearly _had_ —he’d never have guessed it would be _snow_ that would finally do him in.

“ _Snow_ ,” Pavus mumbled. “I knew from the very first flake of it I ever saw that snow would be the death of me.”

It really wasn’t funny.

But they were dying, so fuck it.

Bull laughed as he cut his way through another attacker, all of them racing toward the last trebuchet.

\--

After a long time lying flat on the ground, hidden by vines and tree roots and trying not to breathe, Hissrad finally shifted and signaled for them to continue. They moved away from the direction in which Hissrad had apparently heard something.

Dorian didn’t dare speak right away. And really, he didn’t desire conversation with his talking cow guide. But he finally gave voice to his curiosity—quietly.

“What was it?”

He’d whispered; Hissrad glanced at him and answered in a more normal tone, though by no means carelessly loud, “Tal-Vashoth.”

“Not fog warriors?”

Hissrad shook his head. His broad horns somehow missed all nearby leaves and branches. “We wouldn’t hear fog warriors without being close enough to see them. Just have to make sure if we run into any that I see them first. Tal-Vashoth, though—they’re louder. Savage.”

“You keep wonderful order around here. My congratulations, Ser Qunari-in-Chief.”

Dorian didn’t really expect a response to that—certainly not a good-humored one. So when Hissrad snorted and shot him a look that was more grudging than outright hateful, he was mildly surprised. Not that he showed it.

“The Qun keeps order. This is Seheron. I keep the island from exploding. Most days.”

“And on other days I suppose you sneak through the jungle, playing hide-and-seek with murderers.”

“Looks like I’m doing that today, at least.”

Dorian smoothed his irritation into a polite question. “And why must we walk so far to your nearest outpost?”

“Told you, Vint—your captain picked a shitty spot to land.” Before Dorian could pick at the use of the word _land_ and point out they’d been _wrecked_ , actually, he continued: “The fog warriors pulled off a pretty big campaign a couple days ago. Drove us off a large chunk of territory. We’re mobilizing to take it back, but in the meantime, the Tal-Vashoth caught wind of the instability and moved in. Easier to kill and loot in the chaos. They’re probably making it harder for the fog warriors to dig in, though, so for once, maybe the crazy bastards will turn out useful.”

With a regal dignity that disdained to care about the sweat and grime all over him, Dorian replied, “It’s a wonder you found time to attack innocent passing ships with all this going on.”

Hissrad grunted. “You were unlucky. Crossed our path. And we had reasons. I’d tell you about them, but you probably won’t believe me, so I’ll save my breath.”

“Oh no,” Dorian feigned a lament, “do go on. I’m ever so curious why you interrupted my daring escape from Tevinter. And I promise to thoroughly consider believing every word you say.”

The talking cow shot him a disgruntled look. “Your ship matched the description of a slave smuggler. We like to free slaves, when we get a chance.”

“ _Free_ them? Or _recruit?_ ” Dorian shot back.

A shrug. “A lot of them join the Qun, yeah. But if they have families they want to go back to, that’s fine. As long as…” But he hesitated there—the first sign of hesitation in the conversation so far.

“As long as they’re not _bas saarebas_ , yes?”

Hissrad sighed. “They usually aren’t. Tevinter doesn’t buy mages, they might be required by law to free them, which loses money. Anyway, we were wrong. And then fog warriors showed up and started killing everyone. Probably didn’t know your ship was civilian, just knew it was Vint.”

They continued in silence for a minute before Dorian declared, “This has been the most spectacularly disastrous week of my entire life.”

Shockingly, when the Qunari looked back at him this time, he was smiling. Just a bit. “Hey, you saying you believe me? That’s real sweet, Vint.”

Dorian’s jaw tightened minutely. “I am every good quality in abundance. But it does not necessarily follow that I will direct any of that toward _you_.”

A nod of concession. “Just direct your footsteps where I tell you and we’re good.”

Dorian wished he had any other option in the world but obedience at the moment.

\--

For hours, they climbed a mountain in a blizzard.

Every Charger was carrying a kid on their backs. The mages and soldiers carried the children too—and the injured, and the aged and weak. Anyone too heavy, they laid on large shields and other makeshift sleds and pulled them up the mountain with ropes. Bull had a sled on each arm and a twelve-year-old acolyte on his back who kept offering to use magic to warm him up. Bull said okay once, and the kid lost control, burned him, and then spent the next couple hours apologizing and trying to hide the fact that he was crying.

Cassandra and Dorian were carrying Roderick between them—Cass was favoring her shield arm, and Dorian was limping. They’d escaped the avalanche, though. Barely.

Evelyn hadn’t, and Bull had looked back in time to see the Elder One’s dragon pick him up and escape, so—that was shit. Probably the worst news of all, actually. It was one thing if they all died on a mountain to save the world. It was another thing if the world wasn’t safe yet, and they went and died anyway.

They had to stop, eventually. The people couldn’t go on. They got up over a rise that seemed to act as a bit of a windbreak, and they started shuffling around in the snow, slowly making camp. That Chantry mother got the wounded together, including Roderick, and Dorian and Cass went to report their last battle with the Herald. Bull reported as well—let them all know the _really_ bad news.

Cullen didn’t care; he was dead set on going back to look for Trevelyan as soon as camp was secure. Not that they could, at night in a blizzard, and even Cullen knew that. So the survivors just got busy, setting up camp with whatever they’d managed to drag out of Haven with them.

The Chargers had their tents, but they gave them up to shelter those with none. Instead, they made a bonfire. The supply cart carrying the tents didn’t make it all the way up the mountain. It sat about fifty yards down from their camp with two broken wheels and a broken axle, until Bull sent his boys down to smash it up and bring it for firewood.

Grim was demonstrating proper survival skills for those less experienced, showing how to build a little snow hut for shelter from the wind.

Scanning the camp, Bull spotted Dorian walking away from the healers’ tent. He didn’t seem to have a destination. Bull waved him over.

Dire situations made people open up, sometimes. It was a good move.

“Going somewhere, Vint?”

As expected, there wasn’t much casual levity in his reply. “I had thought a fine, upstanding Chantry mother would appreciate some help with the wounded, but it appears my land of birth warrants more suspicion than I had assumed. I suppose I can see why. To those who know no better, I could pick off the dying to fuel my evil blood magic, and no one the wiser.”

He wasn’t hiding the bitter twist to the corner of his mouth. Bull normally would have asked, just to make sure, but it seemed like the blood magic topic was unusually sensitive, and he figured he knew the answer anyway, so he let it go.

“Hey, gives you time to relax by the fire, at least.”

“Delightful.”

“You could relax in the snow, instead.”

Dorian shot him an unimpressed glare. “I’ll avail myself of your fire. _Thank_ you.”

Bull let him be for a while, then. They sat on broken shields in the circle of light and heat, and mostly ignored the cold at their backs. Bull had already given away his blankets, or he’d have offered one. Might have been a nice gesture, made Dorian more likely to open up and admit something. Unfortunately, all he had to offer as a shield for Dorian’s back was himself, and that would be several big steps too far, probably.

In the silence of an exhausted camp, muffled further by snow, Dorian glanced over at him. “How is your ankle?”

Bull went motionless. _Still doing that, are we?_ He’d hoped facing death together might have worn through whatever reason Dorian had to tell this story, but apparently not. So he relaxed and made himself smile a little ruefully. “You noticed the brace, huh?”

Cold and steady—“No. I know about your injury. From before.”

_All right…_ Bull dropped the act. “I don’t think so, Vint.”

“I don’t know all the details, it’s true. But I know it’s an old injury. There wasn’t really any such thing as cold, there, but you stepped in a rather chilly stream and started swearing, and when I asked you said the cold made it ache, so I imagine it doesn’t feel very good right now…”

“Nice story. Yeah, it hurts. Most old injuries ache in bad weather, Vint. Not too hard to see a brace and put two together.”

Dorian didn’t flinch. “You never told me how it happened, but it seemed to me that it had been not too long after you arrived on Seheron. Within…the first two years, I think.”

There was a catch in his tone, there—something. And at the same time, a little matching catch in Bull’s gut. And not because the guess was spot-on—though that was pretty unnerving too, and definitely a problem right up there with this Vint knowing his real title. But something about _two years_ …

“You got a better idea of the time frame then I do, Vint. All those years sort of blend together for me.” Which was true, of course. If he really tried, he could go back and put it all in order—one Tal-Vashoth atrocity after Tevinter-induced carnage after everyday act of local terrorism. But why try? There was no change—not in Seheron, and not in him. From day one until the day he woke up and turned himself in, the only thing that changed was whether or not it was the rains.

Dorian’s shoulders shifted like he’d sighed, but it was silent. “I realize you think I’m lying. I can even admit that there might be a number of reasons for me to do so, and you have every right to be suspicious.”

The back of Bull’s neck prickled. “Yeah? For example?” _Go on, spill. Lie to me about why you’re doing this—it’ll just put me one step closer to the truth._

But Dorian just looked at him, something distant in his eyes, but a little glimmer too—frustration. And, maybe…a wish. “But couldn’t you…perhaps just _try_ , a little, to imagine the possibility that I might be telling the truth?”

Bull calculated. Ran that back. Hummed. “All right. With seven layers of hypothetical on the question—let’s say you _are_ telling the truth. Want to tell me what you were doing on Seheron?”

He thought that sounded pretty open-minded. Most people would jump at a chance to state their case when given a window like that. But Dorian just looked away, and he didn’t hide his expression— _disappointment._ “No. I want you to _remember_.” Then, he held out his hand. Magic sparkled in his palm, and Bull paid very close attention. If this was going to have something to do with his motives…

A glow started up in Dorian’s hand, growing and expanding into a sphere, about a foot and a half wide. It sort of looked like a fireball, but kind of see-through, like it was empty or something. Dorian moved his hand, not so much moving the thing toward Bull as holding it within his reach. “Go on. Touch it.”

_Where the shit is this coming from?_ Bull just glanced between the magic thing and the mage. “Uh, no thanks. Real pretty and all, but I’m good.”

Dorian _tsked_. “Oh, don’t be so nervous, it’s only heat. Look.” He grabbed a handful of snow and threw it through the sphere. The smaller flakes vanished; the larger clumps sizzled, looked like water for a second, and then _puff_ —they were steam, drifting away. “You can put your hand in it, you won’t catch fire. If I had that in mind, I’d incinerate your ghastly pants first.”

Normally, Bull would have stood by his “no thanks”—but he was trying to crack a pretty good liar, here. This didn’t seem connected to Dorian’s story, but maybe it was. Only way to find out would be to follow the rabbit trail.

So. Bull took a deep breath, swallowed the rock in his stomach, and reached out, prodding the sphere first with the tip of a claw, then half his finger.

It was…warm. Just warm. Really warm, just on the edge of hot, like the outside of a steaming mug of cocoa. But not blistering. “Huh.” He pulled his finger back. The sphere didn’t even flicker.

“ _Huh_ ,” Dorian pointedly agreed. He sounded funny, saying it. Then his grey eyes looked up, and he held Bull’s gaze as he slowly lowered the sphere toward Bull’s outstretched leg—or, actually, his ankle. The bad one.

Dorian hummed, raising his eyebrows. Bull’s stomach did something funny. It was a…livelier expression, and directed at Bull. Kind of unusual. Kind of… _right_. Dorian shouldn’t wear his masks and be cold and distant with him. Nobody should—that wasn’t Bull’s job, people were supposed to like and trust him. _Dorian_ should…should definitely trust him. Dorian should smile and look him in the eye.

_But it makes sense he doesn’t—Vint. Qunari. No, we shouldn’t be friends. He should be suspicious._

But when his expression opened up, it was still… _right._

Slowly, Bull leaned down. Flicked open the strap holding his brace on, and pulled it off. It was metal. Would probably get really hot. Then he straightened up, and nodded.

And Dorian _did_ smile—just a tiny flicker, but it solidified the feeling of _rightness_. And then he lowered his hand, and the clear fireball closed around Bull’s ankle, and the heat felt _great_. It started sinking through the skin immediately, heading bone-deep, and the pain of the old injury dulled at once.

“Shit…” he breathed. Dorian smiled a little more.

“My usual methods are considerably more…tactile,” he explained in a hushed tone, “but that seemed a bit presumptuous. Things being as they are. Still.” His smile faded, his eyes became searching again. “I only wanted to help you.”

That, apparently, was his explanation for where this was coming from. Bull added it to the other pieces. _So the reason he wants me to believe we met on Seheron is because he wants to help me._ Or, more likely, _He wants me to believe his intentions are good so I’ll eventually believe his story._

But _why?_

This _had_ to be laying the groundwork for something big. Get him to doubt his own memory, get him to rely on the Vint to supply his thoughts for him—it was the kind of thing a reeducator might do. But the reeducators also had you in their power the whole time. Used lack of sleep, dehydration, sensory deprivation, and sometimes drugs to help crack the mind. Bull remembered some of that. He remembered being in a dark room, put on a long fast—long enough that he couldn’t stand without help. He remembered being helped to the piss-pot, and knew there had been drugs, though he couldn’t remember what they made him feel or see.

Other than that, he didn’t remember reeducation much, but he knew it all worked together in a well-crafted way to carefully fix a broken mind, make it sane and stable again. Trying the mind games without all the other elements in play seemed like a futile effort to him.

But…well, he could let Dorian _try_. Maybe he just needed to keep watching the guy’s tactics, and eventually he’d reveal some hint about _why_.

So he sighed, and smiled, and let his voice go deep and rumbly in the way Krem sometimes called “purring”—while quirking one critical eyebrow at him. “This is great. Helps a lot. Thanks…Dorian.”

Dorian looked away from him, concentrating on the spell, but Bull thought he caught a flash of something like…pain, in his eyes.

_Hmmm_. Another detail. Add it to the pile.

\--

The snow stopped, and just as the Commander had started to officially form his search parties, the Herald appeared—dragging herself toward their camp and collapsing before getting there. The Inquisition’s leaders all came running, but Cullen was the one to lift her from the snow and carry her—deaf to all offers of help—to the healers’ tent.

She didn’t come around right away, and Cullen re-emerged. The leaders began trying to make plans—now that their worst terror was answered, it seemed like all the other problems suddenly had room to breathe, and everyone had a few favorites they wanted to focus on.

Bull watched Cullen try to participate in the planning, while his eyes kept tracking back to the healers’ tent. He looked like nothing so much as a mabari tied to a tree, with its food set beyond its reach—unable to do more than gaze longingly after his heart’s desire.

He was in the middle of another argument when Bull saw Evelyn sit up. She talked with the Mother for a bit. Then the singing started.

Bull didn’t know the song, but he stood respectfully by. He noticed Dorian, also on the fringes and not singing. _Guess it’s a Southern Chantry thing. Or maybe just a Ferelden song he doesn’t know_. He didn’t kneel in the snow either. But he watched her, and as everyone else knelt, he placed his hand on his chest and bent in a graceful bow.

Bull did what a Qunari would—he stood at attention.

He thought he’d go see how she was doing, but Solas beat him to it. _Interesting._ Bull hadn’t seen him a minute ago. Must have been behind a tent or something. They walked off a ways, and as the laypeople and the rank and file of the Inquisition dispersed, those who made decisions or who accompanied the Herald in the field gathered.

Cullen’s gaze kept flicking in the direction Evelyn had gone. Bull made his way over to the poor man and gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Don’t worry, big guy. She likes ’em a bit taller than that one,” Bull offered quietly.

With a glance, Cullen mumbled, “I haven’t any reason to concern myself with her preferences. I’m just glad she’s alive. The Inquisition needs her.”

Given how cold and tired everyone was, Bull let Cullen cling to his lie for now. 

\--

“And then all I do is stand up and everybody starts singing and kneeling to me, and now you people want me to wave this big fancy sword in the air and be some kind of sacred leader? This is _not_ sane!”

Bull stood near enough to the steps to hear the furious whispers. _Awww. Good girl._

“Did everyone forget I’m a _mage?_ You want Orlais to hit us with an Exalted March? Mages can’t be in charge! Mages are still fighting just to be _free!_ ”

Still, for all her perfectly reasonable protests, the Inquisition needed a leader—as Bull had pointed out weeks ago. Nations had rulers, even the Qun had the Triumvir, and merc companies needed a chief. And Cass did _not_ lose arguments.

Evelyn’s rallying call was pretty great, though. “Darkspawn can suck a Blighted shit! Down with Corypheus!”

The people loved it.

She descended to meet her companions, who gathered about her as she waved anyone over who wasn’t already close by. Then, in a quieter tone, she said, “All eyes and ears would be appreciated, folks. They can’t give this job to a mage without _somebody_ deciding to hire an assassin or two.”

Sera snorted. “They can try, sure.”

Bull grinned. “Boss, with people like this on your side, you’re pretty well equipped to handle shit like that.”

Vivienne waved a dismissive hand. “Anyone foolish enough to attempt it will thoroughly regret that choice, darling.”

“Trust us, Inquisitor,” Leliana added with a tiny smile. “You are in good hands.”

On the edge of the group, Cullen took one small step forward, met the Inquisitor’s eyes, and simply nodded. Bull did not miss the slight flush of color on her cheeks. “Right.” She cleared her throat. “Well. Let’s clean this place up, people! I’m dying to sleep in a bed again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I skimmed over a lot of details there, assuming (hoping) people know the game and know what's going on and don't need it all spelled out. If this were not fanfic it would be terrible, but hey! It is fanfic so let's get going to Skyhold and not keep dwelling on events we already know about! :)


	5. Chapter 5

_“I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word.”_

The Inquisitor stiffened and promptly tripped over a rock. Her ears were red when she righted herself, and probably her face too, but she didn’t turn around. “That’s nice! Anyway, Cole, what’s that fennec thinking?”

The creepy kid followed her pointing finger and stared a moment. Then he whispered, as the fennec scampered away, _“Loud. Danger. Loud. Danger.”_ He looked up. “Maybe we should walk more quietly.”

Evelyn cleared her throat and finally looked around. The blush wasn’t quite done fading. “Okay, everyone.” She nodded to Bull and Dorian. “Tiptoes, got it?”

“We’re going to tiptoe through the Hinterlands,” Dorian spoke slowly, “to avoid making fennecs nervous prior to our attack upon the mercenary fortress? Which, I might venture to add, is likely to be a somewhat louder affair than the sounds of our walking? Despite the fact,” he shot Bull a bland look, “that some of us are lumbering, eight-foot giants.”

“Hey!” Bull pulled a wounded face. “Horns, Vint, not tusks. And I’m not really that hairy.”

“Maker be praised. You still manage to nearly match them in the field of unpleasant odors.”

“You’re scaring the fennecs, lads,” Trevelyan muttered.

“And you’re sweet on Cullen, boss.”

“I am _not!_ ”

“Truly?” Dorian interjected, voice light and pleasant. He stepped quicker to walk closer to Evelyn. “You _aren’t_ taken with our strapping young Templar? Does this mean I can have him?”

Evelyn huffed. “Oh please. As if you’re interested in Commander Cullen.”

“I’ll have you know, the man is a delight to gaze upon. And I find I could easily develop a fondness for your Southern Templars. Templars in the Imperium are not very interesting—soldiers, yes, and well-made as such, but too political to be much fun. Yet your barbaric Southern Circles do have one thing to recommend them—they create a rather thrilling taboo around mages and Templars. It does make a handsome Templar more attractive, in a way, to add a dash of the illicit to the idea.”

Bull listened and noted all this, watching for indications—was this true about Dorian, or was he playing another part? Evelyn was easier. If she tried to lie at all, in was in word alone, and badly done—never anything more subtle.

She flushed again, and gave Dorian a little smile. “It’s…certainly true that Templars and mages regard each other as _very_ forbidden.”

Dorian smiled in a dazzling way. “And you, my lady Inquisitor? Does the forbidden hold no appeal for you?”

She grinned at Dorian. “Well. All right—I admit that I’ve been thrilled a bit by the forbidden in the past.”

“Yes?”

“Way to go, boss!”

Her face was all flushed again. “Nothing _happened_ , Bull!”

“But not for lack of trying?” Dorian prompted.

She rolled her eyes, still smiling. “ _Don’t_ tell anyone about this, either of you. And Cole.” She pointed at him. “No repeating this.”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath. “I may have made something of a hobby out of attempting to seduce Templars at my old Circle.”

Dorian laughed aloud. It was…a really nice laugh. Sounded genuine, too. “I am shocked and scandalized! The Herald of Andraste, seductress of the faithful! Wonderful! Do tell us all about it. Did you have a string of conquests kneeling on their silly skirts for you?”

“I _told_ you,” she was all red again, “nothing really _happened._ It was only…it was very dull, living in the Circle. I was bored. I didn’t ever… _totally_ succeed, anyway.”

“Too bad,” Bull offered. “So there was no fun for Apprentice Trevelyan?”

She shrugged. “I suppose I _could_ have. Mages were forbidden to have relations with each other, too, but it was painfully easy to find a fellow mage willing to break that particular rule, you know. I didn’t even bother with that. I wanted a challenge.”

Dorian’s smile was crafty. “Ah…entice the reluctant Templar, then. That could certainly be an intriguing game.”

“Sounds like familiar territory for you, Vint,” Bull observed.

“Of course.” His smile had gone cold, and he barely glanced back at Bull. “To be desired so intensely that a man is willing to cast aside all his own objections for your sake—what’s not to like?”

Bull didn’t really share the feeling; he didn’t do seduction…unless he was under orders and there was no other way. He wasn’t sure what to make of this; his gut wasn’t saying anything one way or the other. His fingers—his lost fingers—were itching a little, though. _Damn_.

“I never quite got one to really give in all the way, though,” Trevelyan admitted. “I got some of them to fool around with me a bit. Thought I had one for sure, once, but before it happened, he asked for a transfer.”

_“I cannot, I cannot…but I cannot stop myself…”_ Cole suddenly began muttering. _“Andraste help me, Maker forgive me, I’ve already gone much too far, if I see her again…I cannot! Must get away, I’ll go home, mother and father will be furious but I simply cannot!”_

Evelyn stopped in her tracks and turned to look at Cole with a stricken face. “Ah.” She bit her lip, lowering her head. “I…was sort of afraid it was like that.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Dorian put an arm around the Inquisitor’s shoulders. “You couldn’t have known he would take it so hard, my friend.”

“I had a feeling, though,” she whispered. “And even after he was gone, still—I didn’t really stop trying with others. That was pretty bad of me. I don’t think I really cared if they got hurt in the long run. I guess because…they could always _leave_ , and I was stuck there. I suppose it was all just my way of rebelling and kicking back at them…because I hated being locked up in there _so much_.”

“I don’t blame you at all,” Dorian offered, comforting.

“But it wasn’t _their_ fault, was it?” she persisted. “I should have…handled my frustrations better.”

Bull had to agree with that, but he didn’t want to say so. People who were realizing a mistake usually didn’t need other people rubbing it in.

“He left the Templars,” Cole added, and Trevelyan looked up at him in surprise. “City guard in Ostwick now. It’s hard, but he’s…trying.”

“Then he wasn’t involved in the war,” Dorian softly noted. He looked at Evelyn. “You know, you may have saved his life.”

She looked torn between laughter and tears, a hand raking through her hair. “By trying to tempt him into a stupid tryst, and putting him through years of guilt and personal torment, to accidentally spare him from dying in battle or surviving long enough to just get corrupted by red lyrium and enslaved to Corypheus.” She shook her head. “This _world!_ ”

“This world, indeed,” Dorian murmured, rubbing her back, and his eyes shot over to Bull, just for a moment. There was sadness in his gaze, and the phantom itch in Bull’s fingers _stung_ for a moment.

If they’d been his people, Bull would have said _Asit tal-eb_ , and all would have understood. He might have said it that way anyway, and explained the philosophy, if Dorian wasn’t around. But he had a feeling quoting the Qun would only push the guy further away, ruining whatever chance he had of figuring out what was going on there. So instead, he put it in terms that hopefully sounded a little closer to home for these people.

“Can’t change the past, boss.” He shrugged. “And you can’t see the future, either. Shit happens. If you think it was a mistake, just don’t do it again. That’s the best anyone can do.”

“Right.” She sighed. “No more tempting Templars.”

Dorian shot him… _Yeah, that’s definitely a Look_. “Ah, now now, no one said _that_ , specifically.” He pulled Evelyn gently toward him and smiled. “Perhaps no more seducing people just because you’re upset about something. I might even agree that you could avoid flirting with those who don’t desire the attention. But let’s not rule out all Templars and former-Templars as possible dalliances, yes? Some of them might be quite pleased with your regard.”

Her eyes flicked to Bull, who grinned and nodded right on cue. “Some of them would probably be _real_ pleased, boss.”

She cracked a rueful smile. “Well, not Commander Cullen, certainly. I’m sure he’s only pleased by my absence.”

“That’s preposterous—”

“I don’t think so, boss…”

Dorian stopped and glared at Bull for interrupting, and in the pause before one of them could continue…

_“You stayed behind. You could have… You could have died. You cannot die. I cannot let you die. I could not bear it if you died.”_

Heads turned. Evelyn was all red again, looking stunned and uncertain. “Well…who else would…close Rifts. And even if he would feel bad if I died, I mean, that’s not the same thing as _liking_ someone enough to…um.”

Dorian smiled and took the girl’s hand and turned them both forward, continuing on their way. He leaned close and spoke very quietly—Bull had to strain to hear—“My friend, I might remind you of the advice you offered me…and suggest you heed your own counsel in this case.”

“You didn’t think much of my advice at the time,” she whispered back.

“In my specific case, I thought it ill-suited,” Dorian defended. “But it is a good practice in general, and so I recommend it to you now.”

She gave him a Look— _Hey, they’re both pretty good at that_ —and no more was said. Bull left the mages alone as they changed the subject, and he didn’t push in with any more comments about Cullen. He was busily trying to figure out what advice Evelyn had given Dorian.

Fact: _Dorian won her over._

__Fact: _Dorian clearly confided in her, and she’s given him advice. Probably personal._

__Fact: _Boss wants me to like Dorian, probably because she sees that as helpful to him. Also probably personal._

__Fact: _Dorian was never in the army or sent to Seheron._ The Ben-Hassrath information was clear on that.

Fact: _Dorian’s whereabouts were unknown for some time after he first fled Tevinter._ Maybe he’d told the boss? Maybe that was part of why she now trusted him? Because…

Fact: _Boss trusts him_.

Question: _What advice did she give him? What’s he telling her to do about Cullen now?_

__Quietly, from close beside him: _“You can’t just pretend to feel nothing, Dorian. If you care for him, let him know.”_

Bull turned and blinked at the spirit. “Thanks, kid.” Bull noted this for the future. Maybe he could get information this way—just wonder something really hard with Cole around, and _bam!_ Answer.

_Okay…_

Fact: _Dorian has feelings for somebody._

_Shit. Bas_ feelings were so hard to figure out.

Fact: _Dorian has not been here long. Feelings usually take time_ —Krem swore the deep stuff wasn’t the same as an erection— _so either it’s someone from his past or he fell hard and fast._

Fact: _Nobody talks to him—no men, anyway. Maybe Cullen a little._

Theory: _Dorian and boss both have feelings for Cullen._ If that were so, it apparently wasn’t any source of conflict for them, and they were both encouraging the other to make a move on the guy. Not impossible—this had happened once with two of the Chargers and a mayor’s daughter. But it had happened _seven_ times where two (or more) Chargers had taken a shine to the same person and come to blows over it, or at least gotten nasty.

_File that. Examine other alternatives._ Bull went back over the facts. One stuck out.

_Boss wants to help Dorian by getting me to like him_. That, combined with the advice, put up another possibility.

Theory: _I’m the one Dorian has feelings for. She’s trying to get me to reciprocate._

That…had potential. It would certainly give a little context to some of Dorian’s odd behavior toward him. _Major flaw, though—we haven’t known each other very long. And he sure as shit hasn’t been going out of his way to be around me_. Bull had observed this behavior too—people following other people around like mabari pups at master’s heels. It was a pretty classic sign.

_Oh, but then again—his story._ The one where they knew each other before.

_Time period and duration unknown. Location—Dorian claims jungle, meaning Seheron. Clearly false, intel says he was never sent there. No other jungle locations I have personally visited. So if we did meet, he’s lying about where and when._ Bull flexed his itching, burning fingers. _Scratch that, we never met because I don’t remember so it doesn’t matter._

So this was, what? “Love at first sight,” as Krem called it? _Fuck that, I’m not that much of a charmer._

Another possibility: Cole had repeated the boss saying “feelings,” and he probably hadn’t misquoted her, but that didn’t mean this was _deep_. _Even if she’s under that impression, she could be wrong. Dorian could have just confided an attraction, and she took it to mean that “love at first sight” thing._ So.

Theory: _Dorian’s hot for me, boss thinks he’s in love and wants to play matchmaker, and Dorian’s story about the past fits in…_

_Hm_. Not at all. The story came first; it was the first thing he said when they met. He was carrying on with it, so apparently his libido wasn’t in conflict with whatever his agenda for lying was…

_Fuck!_ Bull scratched his maimed hand viciously. _Stupid shit fingers._ He owed one or two guys an apology for not taking their complaints of phantom pain seriously, because this _sucked._

And it was distracting.

_Anyway. Okay. Still no answer on the reason he’s telling this story, but I have a theory I can test._

Plan: _Offer sex. See if he goes for it. If he does, try to get him to open up in bed. If he doesn’t, go back to other theories._

Bull still hadn’t reported the fact that Dorian knew his real title, and he was getting to the point where the omission was a real problem. He needed to get this figured out.

\--

When Hissrad selected a cave as dusk darkened, Dorian pretended disdain. “What, we’re not continuing? Don’t tell me you’re tired already.”

Dorian was dead on his feet, but he would hardly say as much. And this cave actually qualified as a _cave_ —an opening of rocks, halfway up a rock face. High enough they had to climb a tree to reach it, which put them above most animals. It was large inside, too, even if the ceiling was low. There were dry leaves in the back. The ones on the bottom of the pile were rotting, but the rest were all right. Spared from the soaking of the day’s rain, at least.

Not enough to call a bed, but better than solid rock to lie upon.

Hissrad grunted, settling in the mouth of the cave and using the advantage of height to scan the area. “Even the Tal-Vashoth aren’t crazy enough to travel at night, Vint. Or any that are just get eaten, and then my job’s a little bit easier.”

Dorian didn’t have a clever response for that. _Of course there are predators in the jungle_ , he thought, annoyed with himself. _You may not have been outside cities much, Dorian Pavus, but you’ve read about it._

“Well. These accommodations are simply _charming_.”

A snort. “Sleep tight, your highness.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. “ _Sleep?_ In your presence?”

That got him a look. “Told you you’re safe with me.”

A thin smile. “And will _you_ be sleeping soundly, with a Tevinter mage in the same _cozy_ little cave?”

Hissrad sighed. “All right. We won’t sleep. We’ll sit here and rest our legs until dawn.”

“How entertaining.”

This time, he got a bland look. “You know, Vint, it’s not like I even _have_ a _saarebas_ collar to put on you. Can’t exactly hide one in my clothing, can I?”

Dorian contained his horror. “ _Clothing?_ ” Well, he mostly contained it. 

The talking cow shrugged. “Don’t know what you call this in Common. I know ‘pants’ and ‘shirts’ and ‘dress’ and ‘stocking,’ but this isn’t any of those.”

_What have I come to?_ He sighed. “It’s a loincloth.”

That made the Qunari pause, for some reason. “ _Loincloth_. _Cloth_ is fabric. Don’t _loins_ mean your genitals?”

_Honestly, what is my life? How did this happen?_ “Yes.”

The Qunari snorted. Dorian couldn’t well see his face in the gathering dark, but he could hear the smile in his reply. “You thought mangos had a bad name in Qunlat. You call clothing a ‘dick-kerchief.’”

Biting his tongue a moment, Dorian kept from barking a laugh. “A predictably crude parallel. What do _you_ call it?”

“The Qunlat just means ‘covering.’ Nothing naughty about it.”

Unbidden, then, the memory of what they were discussing came to Dorian’s mind. _Nothing naughty indeed._ So far, he hadn’t really connected the Qunari’s clothing with any feeling he might get from seeing a _man_ in a similar state of undress. So he hadn’t really noted what the “covering” concealed—no more than one would notice a dog’s bollocks.

Yet he’d seen it, and his memory supplied it for him now, and suddenly, it was not at all like a dog’s bollocks. Dogs, after all, didn’t cover themselves, even minimally.

“How prosaic,” he declared, and left it at that.

\--

Evelyn Trevelyan had a perfectionist streak. She couldn’t stand to leave things undone. She travelled all over the Hinterlands trying to finish up the myriad tasks she kept running into, and time kept passing.

Maybe she was avoiding Skyhold, too.

Eventually, she had to go back and take a break—already planning to head straight back out to the Fallow Mire to deal with “just a few things” left undone there. She said she was taking Vivienne, Blackwall, and Sera, however. Dorian thanked her warmly for leaving him out of it. Bull thought about Madam de Fer in all that mud, with Sera and Blackwall to travel with, and he kind of had to agree with Dorian. As much as he liked to be involved so that he could gather information more effectively, he had a feeling that was just going to deteriorate into a miserable trip, with nothing useful to glean from it all except that oil and water, predictably, did not mix.

Maybe watching to see who the Inquisitor leaned toward would be informative, but Bull already had a guess about that, and if he was wrong, he’d probably get a clear picture of the results when they returned.

Bull put his reports through Red, who seemed a little frustrated. When he asked—in a purely supportive manner—Red wouldn’t be specific, but it sounded like the Inquisitor was bad at prioritizing, and the Warden situation was constantly getting delayed in favor of shit that was probably a lot less important.

If was hard to tell if Cullen was frustrated by the same problem…or just frustrated in general every time Evelyn walked into a room. He seemed to have a little more time, lately—apparently she didn’t care for his suggestions and instead kept Josephine and Leliana busy. Not that Cullen had nothing to do, but then again, he also had time for an occasional chess game in the garden with Dorian.

The Inquisitor rode off to the Mire, Bull got his Chargers organized for a cleanup patrol of Haven, and Cole vanished. Dorian played chess and joined Varric occasionally in the tavern, and then one evening he strode in alone.

Not with his usual swagger.

He looked…strained. He went to Cabot and pulled out his entire coin purse, and there was some heated discussion and counting coins and several bottles produced and their labels read. Usually most of them would have been rejected, but tonight Dorian accepted three that looked like wine and one that was amber and clear, so probably brandy.

Then Dorian departed. _Hmm._

Whatever it was, it didn’t involve Sera—she was gone. And Varric showed up a while later. And Cullen didn’t drink. And nobody else talked to Dorian, really. 

Possibility: _He’s stocking up._ All at once…while in a bad mood. _Yeah, probably not._

__Possibility: _He’s buying some new friends by providing alcohol_. There were some in Skyhold who might go for that, but they wouldn’t be great friends. They might be available for sex, if bribed well. Dorian had _not_ reacted well to “my door’s always open” and similar suggestive remarks on their last mission, but that could be self-denial resulting in over-indulgence elsewhere. Usually Dorian handled himself better than that, though.

Possibility: _He’s drinking alone._

Question: _Why?_

After wondering this very hard for several minutes, Cole had not appeared to answer him, so he had to take matters into his own hands to find out.

Bull sent Stitches over to Varric to suggest cards, which was always a good move. After the second round, he casually asked Varric, “You know what’s up with Dorian? He was in here earlier, but only for a second.”

Varric shrugged, then seemed to think of something. “A messenger passed me earlier today with a letter, heading to the tower. I assumed it was for Leliana at the time, but it could have been for him.”

“Hmm.”

Bull filed all that and let the evening proceed. He was curious, sure, and still had things he needed to find out, but it wouldn’t be good to push too hard. He played cards and conducted drinking songs and took someone pretty upstairs and showed them a good time. Then he wiped himself down and wrote a report, and by then it was very late. The tavern was quiet, the castle dark. The slow clank of footsteps from the patrols on the walls came and went, and Bull decided on a little stroll around the walls himself. And maybe he’d check on Dorian, while he was at it.

Dorian’s door was slightly ajar. It was dark within, and cold, but Bull heard breathing. He pushed the door open a little further, and still couldn’t see a thing. It was a cloudy night.

He found a table near the door with a stump of candle, and he pulled his tinderbox from his belt and struck a light. By the weak glow of the candle, he finally saw Dorian—sprawled inelegantly on his bed, some of his buckles undone but still mostly dressed. “Dorian?”

Nothing. Bull came forward. He was breathing, but when Bull cautiously touched his bare arm, his skin was chilled. “Stupid altus,” he mumbled. Then he pulled up one side of the blanket and covered Dorian with it while he went to build a fire.

He got a roaring blaze going and lit a few more candles. Empty bottles were scattered around the bed, and a rumpled piece of paper was on the nightstand—a letter.

_Felix Alexius is dead._

_All right_ —Bull scanned the rest of the letter, noting every name and event detailed. It would all go into his report, of course, and if Dorian asked, he’d admit it honestly. In the meantime, it seemed that Felix’s death was probably the most important part as far as Dorian was concerned, and the explanation for his current condition.

Bull looked over at the unconscious bundle and sighed, shaking his head. Then he got busy.

There was a trunk full of clothing, a desk full of books and papers Bull should really go through first, and a couple shelves with all the rest of Dorian’s miscellaneous stuff, which wasn’t much. Bull found a kettle and filled it, but Dorian didn’t seem to have any tea. He had some elfroot, but only one cup, and nothing edible. Grunting in mild annoyance, Bull took his water bucket, which was now empty, and went for another walk.

He raided the larder in the kitchens. Got water, tea, some bread and butter, fruit and cheese. He grabbed a washbasin too. It made for a heavy armload to carry back up to Dorian’s room, but what else did The Iron Bull have all these muscles for?

Dorian hadn’t budged, except to pull his hands under the blanket and burrow his face into it a little. Bull shut the door behind himself and started heating water. He filled the washbasin and started the tea; then he unrolled the Dorian-bundle and started working on getting him out of his clothes. The mage had clearly attempted to do as much while drunk, and the result was a lot of straps and layers in the wrong places. Bull was half surprised the mage hadn’t strangled himself in his Tevinter robes while he slept.

Mumbling and moaning, Dorian stirred and half-woke. Vacant, glassy eyes skimmed over him and fell shut again. “Hey. Dorian. Wake up.”

“ _Non_ ,” Dorian mumbled, and flailed an arm, seeking the blanket again.

“Come on, big guy. You can’t sleep like this. You’ll choke on your own vomit and be dead by morning.”

“ _Ita fiat_.”

Bull glared. He grabbed Dorian’s shirt and let his voice go deep and firm. “ _Exurgo_ , asshole!”

Dorian jolted, eyes opening, though still not really focusing. “Don’t spreak Tevene to me, spy.” His words were very slow, and over-articulated. “I hate that you know my langrage and I don’t know yours.”

“Fine, just sit up, all right?”

Dorian flopped his head in what might have been a nod, but his coordination proved useless. Bull had to pull him up to sitting, and then prop him against the headboard to keep him from falling over while he got him out of his tangled-up outfit.

Bull found loose, warm trousers in Dorian’s trunk that he’d never seen the mage wearing in public, and a dressing gown that was ridiculously thick and warm. He bundled the guy up and practically carried him to a chair, then stuck his feet in the washbasin, now almost-filled with warm water. Dorian moaned with a voice that was frankly scandalous, more suited to orgasms than a little foot-soaking.

Dorian accepted the tea and the elfroot—a good sign. He was biddable, like this. Getting something useful out of him was starting to look like a real possibility.

_Start gentle, though. Friendly._

Bull set out the food, and Dorian arched an eyebrow and blinked at him with bleary surprise. Bull shrugged and went for kind and forthright. “I hear your friend died. I’m sorry.”

Dorian regarded him with obvious suspicion—which was good. He was still too drunk to keep his mask in place, so real feelings were showing through. “Snoop,” he declared, and regally took a piece of fruit. He almost missed his mouth, but otherwise had the poise of a prince.

It was the funniest damn thing Bull had seen all day, and he couldn’t let himself laugh. He quelled the urge a bit by reminding himself why Dorian had gotten this drunk.

“You know, I lost a really good friend, once. On Seheron.” Dorian blinked at him, slowly. “Well, I lost a lot of friends on Seheron, over the years, but this one was special.”

“He died?”

_Sort of just said that…_ “Yeah.”

“What was his name?”

“Vasaad.”

Dorian frowned. “When did it happen?”

“Toward the end. We’d been working together for a long time, and there was a battle. He died, and I kind of…lost it, I guess. I turned myself in not long after that.”

Something blank had washed over Dorian’s face, and his eyes had come alive. He was attentive. _Very_ attentive. “He was special to you?”

“Yeah.”

“For a long time?”

“Years.”

“A lover?”

Bull shook his head. _Bas_ always thought it was like that. They didn’t have a frame of reference for this kind of connection, like Qunari didn’t understand romance or family. “You don’t have sex with friends under the Qun, Dorian. The tamassrans handle those needs. You just do it to keep the body working right, like drinking enough water and taking a shit every day. It’s not how we express that feeling of being close to another person.”

“Ah.” Grey eyes were clouded now, gazing into the fire. “And how _did_ you express to this…Vasaad…your feelings of friendship?”

Bull shrugged. “There’s a name for it, when someone is important to you. But most of the time, you don’t talk about it. You just kind of… _know_.”

Head lolling slowly, Dorian looked at him again. “ _Kadan_ ,” he said, in a soft voice. “The heart. The center.”

Without letting his expression so much as flicker, Bull felt like a million pricks of energy went crawling straight up his spine. He smiled lazily. “Hey, look at that! You know some Qunlat after all!” _What the shit._

It was like he hadn’t spoken. Dorian reached out a weak arm toward his face, and Bull’s mind screamed at him to smack it away. _Bas saarebas, don’t let him…!_ His gut churned, and there was a hot feeling in his maimed hand— _more phantom pain, bad timing, great_. But Bull controlled all this and held still, and Dorian gently touched his face. His gut… _pulled_ , somehow. Not back, not away. Forward, maybe. _Weird._

“ _Hissrad_ ,” Dorian whispered, and his eyes were watery. “ _Revertor…_ ”

Bull thought fast. _Go along with it. Maybe he’ll spill. He’s still pretty drunk…_ So he leaned in a little. “Dorian,” he murmured, placing his hand over Dorian’s on his face. Pressing closer.

But Dorian’s eyes darkened immediately. “Don’t try to fool me,” he answered, his voice suddenly rough. He pulled his hand back.

_Shit_.

“Sorry,” he offered, and he really sort of meant it. He didn’t like leading people on, but Dorian’s knowledge was a serious problem, and Bull’s inability to track down the explanation was starting to put him in a tight spot. He should have reported this weeks ago. If he couldn’t come up with something to report soon…

“I know you, Iron Bull,” Dorian continued, his voice low and harsh. “Not completely, but better than you wish to admit. I can see through your tactics, spy.”

He let out a long, slow exhale. _Okay. One thing left to try._ “Look, Dorian—I’m sorry. I don’t want to manipulate you. I just want an explanation. I want to know who told you my Qunari title, and why you’re trying to get me to believe we’ve met before. That’s it. We get that cleared up, we’ll be good. I swear it.”

At that, Dorian’s eyes went misty again, and he smiled bitterly. “I told you already,” he said, very slowly. “We met on Seheron. Your name was _Hissrad_ then. You saved my life, and I saved yours. We spent time together. Not long, but…enough. As long as you believe that to be a lie, you will search for other explanations. But you will find none, Bull. For there _are_ none.”

Phantom fire in his fingers, a twisting knot in his gut, skin prickling. Bull felt…doubt. Dorian was _drunk_ , damn it! He shouldn’t be able to articulate his lie with such perfect clarity right now, and without the slightest variance in the story. Yet his eyes and voice and _everything_ shone with perfect, unwavering conviction.

So that left…either Dorian himself believed this lie—maybe someone else had brainwashed him, mind-controlled him, put it in his head with blood magic—or it…wasn’t a lie. And Bull’s memory was…wrong.

That was where the sliver of doubt came from.

He wanted to shut it out, shove it away immediately, and cling to what he knew. But that was…no. _Don’t try to ignore it. It’ll eat at you_. So Bull took the doubt and faced it, admitted it, and put it into the compartment in his mind with all the other details. _I doubted myself, my memory._ That was fine. He’d analyze it all later. He’d deal with it.

In the meantime, he met Dorian’s gaze. Honesty. Honesty was getting him… _something_ , at least. “I don’t remember that, Dorian.”

A slow nod. “I know.”

_Hmm_. “Do you know why?”

Pain flashed on Dorian’s face. “I have an idea.”

Carefully: “Want to share that with me?”

But this time, Dorian shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips. “Do I need to? You know what you’ve seen and experienced since the time I spoke of, and you’re far more clever than you look. You are quite capable of discovering the obvious explanation without help.” Then, without waiting for an answer, he reached for Bull’s maimed hand. Lifted it. Kissed the backs of his fingers with that…really pretty mouth, really soft, full lips. “Thank you for your care tonight. I’ll be all right now. Please go.”

“Okay,” he said. He watched, he examined Dorian’s face for a final moment, though, and all he came away with was how pretty, how fucking _beautiful_ that man was by firelight…and how heartbroken his eyes were. Raw, like an open wound. Another detail to analyze later.

It hurt to look at him. It hurt his chest. It hurt his head. It hurt his gut. His fingers burned. Bull left, and took those details with him too, but when he looked at them later, calm and trying to analyze, all he got was renewed pain. No answers.

And doubt.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, Evelyn is still technically a virgin, though not for lack of trying (thanks, _Circle_ ). And _ita fiat_ is like, "so be it."
> 
> And Bull is trying. Poor Bull. (I'm picturing him in an empire-waisted gown, waving a fan coyly and saying, "I feel you have me at something of a disadvantage, Mr. Pavus.")


	6. Chapter 6

Dorian was playing chess in the garden with Cullen. Flirting outrageously, too—even from the walls, Bull could see him smiling and sparkling and being a charmer. Cullen looked…a bit uncomfortable, but mostly too focused on the game to pay attention to Dorian. Like he was aware of the blatant attention, but cared too much about winning his little strategy game to actually flee from embarrassment.

Bull had suspected Cullen might have a competitive streak. _Good to know_.

He continued on his way, and just happened to catch Evelyn, back from the Mire yesterday and running around checking on _everything_ today.

“Hey, boss. Your planters in the garden are getting a little overgrown.”

“Oh? I better cut some herbs today, then.” She mumbled to herself as she walked away, “Can’t let them go to seed, and we need more elfroot for…”

When she was out of sight, Bull got up and ambled back toward the garden. He was just in time to see her approach Dorian and Cullen, and after a short exchange, Dorian got up and left. Bull kept his eyes on Evelyn, and smiled internally when she sat down across from the Commander.

“Gathering the secrets of Orlesian chess for the Qun?” Dorian tutted, appearing from behind a column and moving into sight.

Bull gave him the usual friendly smile. “Just keeping an eye on her. Sent her over here a few minutes ago. Looks like she’s going to take a little break. That’s good.”

Dorian eyed the couple—both smiling, and neither of them looking too closely at the chess board. “Well done. Your timing couldn’t have been better. Just look at that—they’re not even fighting, for once!”

“They don’t see enough of each other outside of the War Room, and that’s where all their differences come up. They need a chance to see each other without all that in the way.”

A genteel snort. “For one to whom romance is such a foreign concept, you play the matchmaker quite well.”

He shrugged. “I’m pretty good at figuring out what people need. So hey.” He turned and looked at Dorian. “How you doing, big guy?”

Grey eyes studied him. “I haven’t drunk myself into a stupor since _that_ time, so I think I can claim to have improved. Not that I’ve ceased drinking, by any means, but I should not require nannying again.”

“You remember that, huh?”

“Oh yes.” Dorian’s voice dropped slightly. “I remember everything…Iron Bull.”

“Hmm.” Bull had thought about this. He’d gone over what Dorian had said, and he had a theory for what the guy was getting at. He’d also tried most of his tricks already, and while being straightforward hadn’t gotten him ¬ _answers_ , really, it had gotten him a bit more than pissy silence. So he figured that was maybe the best tactic to keep pursuing. “So, still sticking to your story that we met before and I forgot about it?”

Dorian turned toward the tower, and Bull moved with him. “Quite.”

“You said you had a theory about why I would have forgotten all that.”

“I remember, yes.”

_Act like you’re on his side. Act like you’re working together._ “Hmm. Well, you hinted that it was something else I experienced that made me forget, and I admit I got a few hard knocks on the head during my merc years—but if I had to guess, I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

“With your skull as thick as it is? Perish the thought.”

Dorian was so overly relaxed and casual, Bull was pretty sure he was concealing his reactions. This must be the right track.

“Right. Well, here’s the thing. I did go through reeducation after Seheron, and I told the boss about that, so it would make sense if she told you.” _Not until after Dorian had already claimed our past acquaintance, but—pretend not to have thought of that_. “So is that your theory? That the reeducators did some shit to my memory?”

But Dorian, clever asshole, didn’t reciprocate with a straight answer. “They would be capable of that much, would they not?”

Stifling the urge to growl, Bull hummed casually instead. “Sure, I guess. But why would they? What’s so important about you having been on Seheron?”

They had reached the stairs, and Dorian ascended them ahead of Bull—a point worth questioning, too. _On purpose, or just happened that way?_ It put Dorian’s ass much more directly in Bull’s line of sight, making the feature, highlighted nicely in those trousers, pretty damn hard to ignore. And an altus could pull out distractions at just the right time, couldn’t he?

“Come now, Iron Bull, you phrase your questions poorly.” Dorian’s voice was light, but it gave Bull the sudden urge to see his eyes. Maybe they weren’t quite so calm and expressionless right now. _Damn that ass…in more ways than one._ “I don’t know exactly how the reeducators work, it’s true, but it seems they would have no reason to remove general information from a Qunari’s head—whether important or trivial. The goal of reeducation, as I understand it, is to keep you in your role.” Dorian reached the top of the stairs and abruptly turned. Bull stopped a couple steps below him, which put them at eye level. And Dorian’s eyes were _not_ calm and casual. They were hard and sharp, like steel. “Ask, rather, why you might need to forget me in order to continue your work for the Ben-Hassrath.”

Bull frowned. “You saying I was going to go Tal-Vashoth…because of _you?_ ”

Dorian flashed him a bright, cold smile. “You sound incredulous. You wouldn’t be, if you’d ever enjoyed the full pleasure of my company.”

Slowly, Bull took the last few steps, and rested his hands on the frame of the door. Loomed, a little, but Dorian didn’t flinch. His eyes flicked, just for a moment, to the maimed hand. _Interesting_. “Don’t know if I can buy that, Vint. No matter how good you are in bed, I wouldn’t betray my people just for that.”

The mask…slipped. Bull’s stomach tightened at the sight as Dorian’s eyes went soft and sad. “No,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t, not just for that. You’re too loyal.” Then, he straightened. “Good day, Iron Bull.”

\--

Cullen’s soldiers and the Chargers usually took turns using the training ground. When he was busy, Cullen had Rylen or another sub-captain run them. But it also happened that he led drills himself, when he had time, and on occasion the Chargers practiced with the regular troops. This was one such day.

Bull and Cullen ran things for the first hour, then Krem and Rylen took over and pitted their people against each other for sparring. Clash of fighting styles, different skill sets in use—good way to expand everyone’s experience. Bull watched the training, and he watched the people passing and going about their business in Skyhold, and he watched Cullen.

The Commander was looking pretty distracted, today. 

“How’s it going, Cullen?” _Friendly._ Friendly never failed with Cullen.

“What? Oh. I’m all right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. That meant uncertainty.

“Having an off day?”

“Just a headache.”

_Hmm._ “Does the boss know about this?”

“What?” Cullen blinked. “My headache?”

“You quitting the lyrium,” Bull clarified.

“Oh.” Cullen blinked again. “Um, no, I suppose not. Cassandra and I had that conversation before the Conclave.” He frowned. “But now that she’s the Inquisitor, I should probably inform her. She has a right to know…as the leader.”

“Sure,” Bull agreed. “Maybe as a friend, too. A little bit.”

Not too long ago, that suggestion would have prompted an immediate denial. With how often they butted heads in the beginning… But today, it just made Cullen look really damn nervous. “I can’t imagine my affairs would…mean much to her, personally. Not to say she’s unfeeling! She takes great pains to help everyone. Perhaps too many people,” he added in a lower voice. Then he cleared his throat. “I only mean…I shouldn’t trouble her. I am…one of the many in service to the Inquisition, and therefore under her command, and that is all I need be.”

Bull had his own perception of what the Commander _needed_ —a compassionate touch, a friend’s support, and probably loving eyes needing the same steadiness from _him_. A man like him could be a lot stronger than he was if someone he cared for needed him to be. It was like how the sten viewed the Qun. Soldiers understood very little of the whole philosophy; all they knew was that it was their role to defend, or defend by attacking—either way, they were _needed_. That was all that mattered.

Bull felt that way too—he’d been bred for the beresaad, after all. He had a lot of the same building blocks. But, as he’d told the boss, he’d turned out to have an innate talent for lying. Led to a shift in his role assignment, but he could still feel those protector instincts way down deep.

“You know,” Bull started casually, “she _does_ help too many people, doesn’t she?”

Cullen frowned. “Well…we have some very urgent matters to attend to. Despite that, she keeps running around doing comparatively trivial things for people who cannot help us. I can hardly blame her for intervening to aid the helpless, but if our enemy has time to make his move, all will be for naught.”

“What’s she need to do next, to deal with that darkspawn asshole?”

“Well…we’ve only just located the Warden Hawke mentioned to us weeks ago. She may have to go to a little village called Crestwood to meet him. But our other lead, provided by her trip to the future, is the problem of the Orlesian empress. The ambassador is certain that our only opportunity to aid Celene will be at some ball at the Winter Palace, and the date for that event approaches quickly.”

“Right, right.” Bull waved his hand a little. He hadn’t meant to set Cullen off on a long list of everything that needed to be done. “So let’s say she finds the Warden. Will that beat Corypheus?”

Cullen’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Of course not. But it might give us a lead on—”

“I know, Cullen, just think a minute. And if she saves the Empress, will that beat Corypheus?”

“It would…stabilize the South and gain us an ally, but…no.”

“But if people are cold and hungry and she goes out and kills some rams and finds some blankets, does that stop the people from being cold and hungry?”

Cullen answered, slowly: “Yes…”

“So she helped, and she can see that what she did helped.”

“All right…I can see a certain benefit to that. Though it ignores the larger problem…”

Bull patted Cullen’s feathery shoulder. “She’s probably not _trying_ to ignore Corypheus, she’s probably just trying to feel like she made a difference.” He smiled. “Ben-Hassrath, remember? I look at her and I see a young lady who really likes helping people. She needs to see it working out.” Then, coming back to his point, he concluded, “So if her Commander is feeling like shit because of lyrium withdrawal, it wouldn’t be a bother to her to hear about it. And maybe, if you let her make you some tea—or whatever helps that headache—you’d be helping her…by letting her help you.”

Cullen’s thoughtful expression vanished suddenly in a yelp of surprise as Cole appeared out of thin air. “Yes! Helping! Helped to be helpful!”

Bull kept from jumping, but only thanks to all that training.

\--

Dorian did not _frown_ , but he studied the Inquisitor with a carefully skeptical eye. She had flour on her nose.

“So you’re making…?”

“Cardamom carrot cake!” Evelyn announced with a grin. “And…mint tea. They don’t really go together.” She winced, still stirring the bowl, again losing a bit of flour, straight onto her nice blue jacket. “Carrots are related to elfroot, with some similar benefits. And cardamom is…” She bit her lip. “Actually, I’m not sure what’s good about it. In the Circle they always said you had to keep it away from the lyrium, though, because… _something_ would happen. And they made cardamom cookies for the older Templars, so I know it helps with lyrium…problems.” She grinned hopefully. “And mint is just excellent for headaches!”

Dorian contemplated, for a moment, how adorable all this was.

“Actually,” Evelyn was mumbling, “the cake might not do it. Maybe I should make some cardamom cookies too, just in case…”

“You do know they’ve found Hawke’s friend in Crestwood, yes? The poor fellow can’t wait forever…”

“I know, I know, don’t pester me! We’ll go there next. Tomorrow. Or the next day maybe, as soon as we’re ready. I want to bring Sera, to keep her out of trouble. And you’ll come, won’t you? Sera’s quite fond of you.”

Dorian sighed and went over to a few hooks on the wall where he’d seen aprons hanging. He chose the cleanest, which was far too large for Evelyn, and returned and tied it around her. “Mind your clothes, they don’t look half bad on you. And of course I’ll come. Grey Wardens are a tedious lot—all the more reason to bring along someone with a bit of wit and charm to liven up the journey.”

“Thanks,” she beamed at him. She did seem to be in good mood today.

“I wasn’t aware you were so fond of baking.”

“Oh. Well, I’m not _fond_ of it. Not particularly great at it, either. But I can do it. Stuff tends to turn out looking a bit messy, but it always tastes fine.” She pointed to a bundle of carrots. “Wash a couple of those for me, will you?”

Resigned, Dorian found himself an apron as well and washed carrots. “Who else will you bring to Crestwood, then?” he asked casually.

“Oh…” she straightened, face falling. “I was going to bring Bull, but I should probably ask Blackwall instead, shouldn’t I? He’s a Warden and all. They might need to share Warden news or…whatever Wardens talk about.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Finished washing, Dorian was immediately handed a grater for the carrots.

“Here, into this bowl.” Then, “I barely know Blackwall. I suppose it’s about time to remedy that.” She winced at Dorian. “Sorry.”

“My dear lady,” Dorian smiled fondly, “I see nothing to apologize for.”

“Well, you and Bull…”

“Please.” He shook his head gently. “We are nothing, now, and simply keeping us around each other is not going to magically recreate what has been lost.”

“You don’t know that! What if being around you brings back a memory?”

“It hasn’t yet,” Dorian pointed out. “And I think you underestimate the reeducators if you cling to a hope like that.”

“I’m not _clinging_ ,” she countered, sharply cracking an egg. “It’s just that _something_ has to work. It can’t be utterly hopeless.”

“Your romantic side is quite adorable, but what is so hopeless about my simply giving up and moving on?” She opened her mouth, but Dorian held up a stump of carrot to delay her. “Yes, I very nearly had something…something wonderful. It didn’t happen, however. That was some time ago now. I supposed him dead, and in many ways, he is. It seems wiser to look elsewhere for happiness, rather than struggling to recreate what might have been.”

“I suppose that’s prudent…” Evelyn handed Dorian a cup. “Fill this with honey? The crock’s over there.” As he slowly poured the honey for her from the heavy crock, she added, “I’m not saying you can’t, or shouldn’t, move on. But…is it really so easy?” She gave him an unhappy look. “You wouldn’t risk so much to protect him in battle if you really considered him dead and lost, I think. Or maybe even if you have given up, you still care just the same?” She took the honey. “I just mean…you seemed to be suffering over it, when we spoke before.”

Over the knot in the pit of his stomach, Dorian kept his voice light. “Well, I can’t pretend complete indifference, dear girl. Don’t misunderstand. It isn’t easy, separating my memories from the man with us now. But, as we’ve no cure for reeducation, it seems I must accept things as they are.” He managed a smile. “And after all, all this time I thought he had been killed. It’s nice to know he is alive, and perhaps eventually I might count him among my friends again.”

“Is that all?”

“Likely, yes.” Dorian absently tidied up the kitchen things. “He’s Ben-Hassrath through and through, now. There’s no room in his life anymore for what…for what we would have been.”

Silence a moment. Then, Evelyn put down her bowl and hugged him. “Now, now,” Dorian murmured. “Mind my clothing, you’re covered in flour.”

“Ass,” she shot back, without heat.

\--

As the conversation turned more definitively to Crestwood and the upcoming journey, Bull pushed himself off from the wall were he’d been leaning, beside the ajar door. 

_This really might not have a damn thing to do with me._

With how completely the boss had bought Dorian’s story—and more than that, how much she was now personally invested in his happiness—it was beginning to look like the goal might never have been Bull after all.

One reason: _He’s a Vint. She’s Southern Circle. He had every reason to doubt he’d be welcome._ Corroborated by the fact that he _wasn’t_ immediately welcome. She’d been suspicious. His tragic tale seemed to have cleared that up pretty well.

Problem: _The first damn words out of his mouth, before he knew what the situation would be…_

One reason: _Could have done his research. Could have planned it all. After all…_

Problem: _He still knew my title._

There was one other thing.

Fact: _It all changed when they went into the future at Redcliff._

Bull didn’t know if he should call that a lingering question or an answer or what. But there was a pretty marked difference between her attitude toward Dorian before and after that. Not that it had gone from suspicion and strangers to _this_ —whatever loving, familial bond they had now—but she’d been open after Redcliff. Caring. _Believing._ Things had progressed quickly from there.

The tragic romance thing sealed the deal. Sounded like she now not only cared about Dorian’s relationship with Bull, she was invested enough to want Dorian to be happy—by whatever avenue seemed good. That was a risky situation. He could sway her to just about anything, from here.

One problem: _He still pushes this story with me, when she’s not around._

If Dorian’s goal was Trevelyan all along, he had no reason to lay it on so thick when he and Bull were alone. He had no right to the kind of clarity that made Bull feel doubt, when he was three sheets to the wind and lots of his walls were down.

Stepping out into the daylight, Bull growled softly under his breath. He was _frustrated_. Nothing was adding up, and he _still_ hadn’t reported any of this. And his _fucking hand_ was on _fire_ again.

_If I’d reported this weeks ago, the Ben-Hassrath probably would have explained everything._ They had so much more information. Snippets from all over the world. That’s why his job was to report, and not try to piece everything together on his own. He didn’t have all the information.

_…Or._

Or they would have summoned him for reassignment. Lots of ditches back home needed to be dug.

The possibility remained—and Bull had not entirely dismissed it—that Dorian was telling the truth. Apart from Bull not remembering him, nothing else in his story had been provably false—and he had a possible explanation for the memory thing. Of course, what Bull had gotten so far was all pretty vague, so proving any of it false would be like trying to contradict a Rivaini seer’s fortune-telling. _“Your destiny approaches, but a price must be paid, and you will soon have a day of great luck, and someone close to you is even closer than you think.” Sure._

So.

Bull knew, _knew_ he needed to report this. But at this point— _how?_ How could he explain his omission so far? What could he even _report?_

\--

The moons rose, and the shadowy shape at the mouth of the cave turned into a silvered body, sitting with his back to one wall, his feet against the other. An arm on a bent knee. Gazing out at the moon-streaked jungle, dappled with hollows of deepest black.

It was possible to miss the horns, at first glance—they were close to the ceiling of the cave and in shadow. So when Dorian glanced that way after a screech from some wild animal woke him from a fitful doze, he noticed…everything else, first.

Hissrad could have been a statue—larger than life, like a statue, and muscled to perfection the way normal men weren’t. Still as marble, white and glowing.

Shockingly, horribly beautiful.

The moment passed as Dorian recalled the danger he was in, the gut-deep dread of what might happen to him—what this Qunari might choose to do to him, Void take his worthless promises. Still. It was a moment. He would have trouble forgetting it.

“Will we reach your people tomorrow, do you think?” He tried to make it casual, asked in a bored tone, but it came out a little too hushed. Not that the night forbade sound. The jungle was lively with noise. But the cave was a still place, and Hissrad had not moved, and for some reason, Dorian spoke softly.

“Should.” It was just as soft. A deep rumble. “If we don’t run into Tal-Vashoth.”

“What about fog warriors?”

The figure in the moonlight didn’t move, but his voice gave an impression of shrugging. “Not armed to fight anyone right now. Lost my axe on the beach. But I’d rather face fog warriors. They kill cleanly.”

“I take it the Tal-Vashoth are different.”

A pause. “Saw one kill a guy with his teeth, once. The sten ran him through, and he didn’t have a weapon. Sword didn’t even slow him down. It was all claws and teeth, and by the time I got to them, they were both dead. Sten was mangled. You couldn’t recognize him.” The final pronouncement came from somewhere deep—“Tal-Vashoth are mad.”

“What could possibly…?”

“It’s complicated.”

Dorian paused. Curiosity, perhaps—and nothing better to do. “All right.”

Another pause, then Hissrad slowly turned his head a little toward Dorian. His face was half-lit, half in shadow. “The Qun says they reject their role, reject the Qun, and without it, that’s all we can ever be—mad beasts.” He tipped his head slightly to one side. “In reality? That’s partly true, but not really. We’re raised to serve a purpose, and we need to. The Qun gives us that purpose. But Seheron’s fucked. Things don’t make sense. Everybody snaps. We’re all a little bit Tal-Vashoth here.”

“You seem…sane enough,” Dorian observed. “Not likely to try to chew me to death, at least.”

“I told you. We need a purpose. After two years, I found my own. I don’t stay here and fight for the Qun anymore. I fight to protect those who need it. I don’t always do things the way Par Vollen would. But I get things done. I do what works. Making life safer for people is my purpose.”

“And that keeps you from going mad? As simple as that?” _Qunari psychology must be terribly rudimentary._

__A slight shrug. “What is madness? I don’t tear people apart, but I chased a Vint mage into the jungle to save him. Got my fingers fried off for my trouble, too. That was dumb. Or maybe it was crazy.” He shook his head. “Maybe crazy just looks different on me.”

_Well, it doesn’t do any harm to your physique_ , Dorian thought, and the next moment mentally slapped himself. _Where did that come from?_

_…From your libido, Dorian Pavus, to put it politely._

_Ugh._

“What about you?” Hissrad hadn’t moved, but the tone of his voice had changed. More…alive, somehow. “Vint—Dorian, House-Name-Subtly-Withheld. For the time being, at least.”

“What _about_ me?”

“You insane too, or what?”

“I beg your pardon.” Dorian added a touch of sneer. Maybe useless, if it couldn’t be seen in the dark.

“You’re a magister’s son who ran away from home. And not in style, either.”

“I _beg_ your pardon,” Dorian repeated. “I do everything in style.”

A snort. “Yeah, you wear that rain and mud like silk. I mean your ship. Most times, an altus plays runaway, he gets himself a nice big ship with a fancy cabin, runs off to Rivain to see how many new diseases he can pick up. He doesn’t book himself all the way to the Free Marches on a shitty little boat that looks shady enough to be running illegally acquired slaves.”

“Well, I wasn’t _playing_ runaway, I was leaving Tevinter. On very short notice, with limited agency in my accommodations, and without any plan to return as long as that choice was my own to make.”

“Yeah? Why?”

Dorian fought to relax his jaw and not grit his teeth. “Self-preservation.” He wasn’t ready to think about this. Certainly not with company.

“Hmm. Assassination?”

“Ha!” His smile was bitter. “If only.”

“Don’t want to talk about it, huh?”

“You’re very perceptive,” Dorian answered, allowing for a note of sarcasm.

Hissrad studied him. “Little bit. Had some training in that sort of thing.”

“Is that an understatement?”

“Yeah.”

“Well. Aren’t you a gentleman for admitting it.”

There was moonlight enough to see a slow grin spread over those sharp, highlighted features. “That’s a new one.”

“Pardon?”

“Been called a lot of things, but not a ‘gentleman.’ ’Specially not by a magister’s son, but hey, you should know. You’ve probably met gentlemen before.”

“I’ve met _men_ ,” Dorian answered softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever met any who were _gentle._ ” _Well…maybe one or two. Temporarily so,_ he thought, with bitterness at the memory.

“That’s a shame.”

Slightly startled that Hissrad had even heard him, Dorian glanced up. “What? Why?”

This time, the statue shrugged visibly, masses of muscle shifting as he turned his head and looked back out over the jungle. “Seems like gentleness would be good for you. If you ever stopped being a complete shit and let someone give you that.”

Utterly unable to summon a response, Dorian eventually managed to pronounce a weak “Hah!” Then he rolled over and curled up in his leaves and desperately tried to remind himself— _talking cow, talking cow, not a man, a talking cow._

He slept very little.


	7. Chapter 7

_With no explanation, D. Pavus knows my title under the Qun. Confirmed that no one else knows it, not even the spymaster. P. source unknown. Request investigation of P.’s contacts; possible leak._

_P. now highly favored by E. Trevelyan._

_\--_

_Warden Stroud located; possible lead on rest of Wardens. Inquisition scouting Western Approach. All Wardens hearing “the Calling”—some kind of final summons, prelude to death. Organization appears desperate._

_Warden Blackwall now out of favor. E. Trevelyan unhappy with his treatment of her favorite, D. Pavus._

_\--_

_Inquisition saved village of Crestwood; new base established in Caer Bronach. Further pursuit of Warden situation delayed. D. Pavus has personal business in Redcliff; E. Trevelyan traveling with him. Truce called in Orlesian civil war for negotiations in two weeks. Inquisition planning to attend._

_\--_

__Bull hadn’t been in Crestwood, but he’d picked up on Blackwall’s feelings about Dorian, and it was obvious from the first glance as the party rode back into Skyhold that Blackwall had aired those views, and Evelyn, predictably, had _minded._ Dorian, naturally, wore his usual mask of grace and charm. If he was wounded at all by the Warden’s poor opinion, he was never going to show it.

The Inquisitor was off again soon after, pointedly _not_ inviting Blackwall. When Bull heard it was some sort of feud between Dorian and his family, he _offered_ to join them. Evelyn was pleased and encouraged by his interest, and Bull knew why and didn’t do anything to correct her thinking. But in truth, the in-fighting of a magister’s house was good intel. Someone somewhere in the Ben-Hassrath would have a use for it.

That, and…and Dorian was looking a little rattled. And if things were going to get rattle-y, Cassandra wasn’t the most soothing friend to have around. As it stood, maybe Bull wasn’t considered a _friend_ , either, but he could read people and be soothing. Even for the complex mess that was Dorian Pavus.

Probably.

As they neared Redcliff, Bull took the opportunity while Varric was distracting Evelyn with a story about the Champion of Kirkwall, and he rode up beside Dorian. “So. Does your family _have_ a retainer?”

Dorian glanced at him with a dismissive look, but answered, “We have a few servants who might be called such, though none of them have ever been sent so far on any assignment. Of course, things may have changed in my absence. I haven’t been home in a few years.”

“Yeah? Me neither,” Bull offered, all friendly-like. “Where’ve you been staying?”

He got a disapproving look for that. A _come now, you can do better than that_ Look. “A bit of everywhere. What about _you?_ ”

Shrugging it off, Bull echoed, “Bit of everywhere too, I guess.” Then, he added as an afterthought, “Oh. Except Rivain. Sort of skipped that one.”

To his surprise, something in that seemed to hit a nerve. Dorian froze, staring at him wide-eyed. There was a moment of very clear hope in his eyes, quickly overwhelmed by uncertainty. But Dorian continued to stare, clearly studying Bull _very_ closely. As during their first conversation at Haven, he wasn’t hiding it either.

“Rivain.” His voice was soft. He swallowed. “Ah.”

Bull was absolutely confused, but he knew better than to show it. Dorian was reacting like there was some significance here. _Try to figure out why._ “Something wrong with that?” he asked calmly.

A moment of hesitation. Then, “Why did you…mention Rivain?”

Bull just watched him. “Because it’s true. I haven’t been there.” He cocked his head slightly and smiled a bit, like they were sharing an inside joke. “Why? Did we _also_ meet up in Rivain, but I forgot that too?”

Dorian’s expression shuttered—a hint of bitter disappointment before…blank. Nothing. Then, an empty smile. “If we had been together in Rivain, _Iron Bull_ , you would _not_ have forgotten it.”

Frustrated—Dorian’s surprise had passed, he wouldn’t slip again—Bull grinned amiably. “I bet. I hear those Rivaini know how to have a good time.”

With a tired shrug, Dorian agreed, “That’s true enough. I saw potions for sale there that claimed to do things I can’t imagine anyone taking an interest in. Some of it seemed a bit unhealthy, really, but who am I to judge.”

“I know a pirate from Rivain,” Varric chimed in, “and you can believe those potions do exactly what they advertise. Isabela had some stories, and let me tell you…”

But they were in Redcliff now, and Dorian didn’t seem terribly fascinated. Varric kept the Inquisitor entertained, and when they reached the tavern Bull scouted around the area. Then they cautiously went inside. Bull kept near the door, to guard against an ambush.

The guy in robes who showed up by the stairs was no retainer.

Bull watched the confrontation play out, silent in the background. Listening. The revelation of the planned blood magic landed on Evelyn like a physical wound—and clearly it was sticking with Dorian like one—but Bull took it in stride. It made sense. He already knew Dorian was the sole Pavus heir and disinclined to accept a wife, and from what he’d observed of the guy, it was easy to assume that at some point his family had demanded he marry and, Dorian being Dorian, he would naturally have utterly refused. Then, add in the reality of Tevinter and it seemed almost inevitable. The only surprise was that Magister Halward seemed to have taken to blood magic so reluctantly, and apparently now regretted the whole idea. _That’s an unusual magister right there_ , Bull decided.

Apart from these facts, Bull closely watched the people. He’d never had a chance to see Dorian like this, get a read on him when, apparently, all his walls were down. He was a knot of emotion, vibrating with it, and it all _looked_ negative. Anger, fear, hate. But the thing was, pure emotion would come out straight, like an arrow shot on target, nothing holding it back. Dorian’s anger was a mess, which meant it was being held back in places by something else.

He looked very…young. Like a boy in pain, trying to be brave. And trying to stop the pain, but going about it all wrong—just pushing closer and closer to it instead of drawing back, calmly, and seeking the place of peace and certainty inside.

_Maybe he doesn’t have that. Bas don’t…_

That was a scary thought. How anyone could live without knowing where their center was and how to find it when in danger…

Then there was the magister. The father. He was clearly a man who was accustomed to command, who ordered his world and saw it obey. But he wasn’t doing that now. He was trying to heal something, and he didn’t know how. He looked like a man wearing new boots that didn’t feel right. Still, Bull saw sincerity in him, as he struggled to walk in his new role.

Dorian’s reactions cemented Bull’s guess—that Magister Halward was not accustomed to this. Dorian seemed to be responding to a different man than the one who stood here now, quietly apologizing and expressing guilt. Sure, things had happened, but there was a lifetime of practice in the way Dorian kicked back at his father. Probably meant a lifetime of demands, a lifetime of learning to _resent_.

Evelyn looked like she was dying to hug Dorian, but even she couldn’t fail to pick up on his tension. It wasn’t the time. She spoke to him, though, and it was too quiet for Bull to make out the words, but it was clearly something gentle and comforting.

When Dorian went to speak to his father again—as Evelyn quietly ushered the rest of them out—Bull saw what it was that had been twisting his anger and holding him back.

It was love. Love that wouldn’t let Dorian cut ties forever. Love in his father, too, trying to move forward, but blind in the dark.

Evelyn sat down heavily outside the tavern and groaned. “Oh, Maker, did I do the right thing? Maybe I should go back and just get him out of there…”

“He’s gotta work through this sooner or later,” Varric offered, patting her shoulder—in reach, for him, when she sat down. “It’s probably better to let him deal with it face to face.”

Unable to come up with a response to that, Evelyn winced and turned pleading eyes to Bull. He shook his head. “Give him a chance, boss. If he wants to leave, he doesn’t need you to hold his hand and make him.”

Sure enough, Dorian eventually reappeared—in his own time. He rejoined them, straight-backed, and without quite looking at anyone directly, said, “Well, let’s be off, yes? The Inquisition has important work to do; we’ve wasted quite enough time on personal drama.”

Evelyn, still looking stricken, hugged him around his ribs. Dorian stiffly patted her head. “Yes, yes, not now if you please, dear girl.”

She pulled back. “Sorry.”

It seemed like a good moment to interject, “Boss, you want to check the book stall quick before we go?”

A hurried nod. “Yes, let’s get a look at some books. Dorian?”

“Naturally. I’ll gladly stand between you and any wasteful purchases.”

\--

It was shocking, how quickly it happened.

One moment, they were picking their way through the jungle. The next, Hissrad stopped, stiffened, and then leapt back as a figure burst from the underbrush, screaming at them.

He dodged, ducked, rolled, spun around a tree, and got behind the guy and snapped his neck. It took all of two seconds, and then he was shouting “Get back!” to Dorian as more appeared, running blindly at them and waving either swords or clubs. One of them might not have had any weapon at all, but Dorian wasn’t pausing to count.

He spun his staff in a sudden arc, slamming the focus straight into one attacker’s face. There was a horrible crunch, but the giant madman didn’t go down. He staggered a moment, twisting toward Dorian as he did. As if moving on hunter instinct and nothing else.

Hissrad was fighting, somewhere. One giant fell. But Dorian was backing up quick, hoping his footing would hold out while he gathered fire.

A moment later, his pursuer was screaming, burning—still chasing him, but flailing, stumbling. Dorian added more power to the next gout of flame, and a sickening smell washed over him as the beast crumpled.

Three more—too close to Hissrad to target _them_ and not hit _him_. Dorian pulled out fear, hoping they weren’t so mad that they couldn’t feel it.

One started screaming and dropped his sword, instead trying to shred Hissrad with his claws. Hissrad grabbed the sword and ran him through.

Another threw himself on the ground—right onto his own blade. It…didn’t look like an accident.

The third grabbed Hissrad, knocking the sword away, and Hissrad was soon locked in a grapple with the grinning face of lunacy. The beast was laughing, its claws sinking into Hissrad’s arms, its teeth snapping.

Dorian hit it low with ice, pinning its feet. Hissrad used the leverage to break free, breaking the ice in the process, but he got around the beast in time and it, too, fell in a heap as its neck snapped.

Without even slowing, Hissrad grabbed the weapons their attackers had dropped. “You okay?” he called to Dorian.

“Yes…” He felt a little shaken, but uninjured.

“Good. We need to _move._ ”

And with no other explanation, Hissrad took off at a silent near-run. Dorian stumbled and followed.

They ran and ran until Dorian’s chest was pure fire, his lungs refusing to fill, and his stomach threatening to rebel. Then Hissrad ducked suddenly under a massive, moss-and-vine-covered fallen tree, and Dorian followed, trying to catch his breath as quietly as possible.

Minutes later, when he could _breathe_ again, he whispered, “I hope…you can explain…why that…was necessary.”

He couldn’t see Hissrad’s face—they were pressed together, side by side. Dorian, being smaller, fit against Hissrad’s chest. He could feel the man’s heavy heartbeat. _How…novel._

“We made a lot of noise,” he whispered back. “Had to get away from the area. Could have been fog warriors nearby.” His usually deep voice sounded terribly strange in a whisper, and from so close. In such a small, hidden space, it didn’t sound like a big beast of a man anymore. He sounded…

_No. Never mind._ There was nothing to be gained by making such a comparison.

“We’ll have to move again, soon. More careful. Hide tracks. Get your breath back while I listen. We’ll move in a minute.”

Understanding that Hissrad needed his hearing, Dorian just nodded, gulping air silently and feeling his heart slow from the hammering he thought was going to burst his chest to…well, not _normal_ , but slower. There was still a staccato to it, a hard to ignore up-tempo skip.

Then Dorian noticed—his arm was sandwiched between them, and the back of his hand was pressed to the outside of Hissrad’s thigh.

His supreme self-control quickly overcame the instinct to jerk away. Instead, he calmed his expression, noted the fact, and then put it away. There was nothing to be done about it and no significance to it anyway, so why bother? It simply was; he dismissed it.

Mentally.

Though Dorian did not acknowledge the feeling, his gut knew the memory would be back. _Later_.

\--

_Magister H. Pavus alienated son (D. Pavus) by planning blood magic ritual to alter son’s sexual preferences; cause of current family rift. No indication if wife knew. Halamshiral negotiations one week away, no time to travel to Western Approach. Inquisition leaving for Val Royeaux to outfit members for event; Halamshiral directly after._

\--

Evelyn Trevelyan stumbled into the Herald’s Rest already pretty drunk; Dorian kept catching her, much steadier on his feet, but to Bull’s sharp eye he had been drinking too. Probably a lot. Probably a lot more than Evelyn. When they made their way to Cabot and it became clear the reason for the visit was that they’d run out of alcohol, Bull measured in his head.

From what he’d seen, Evelyn could handle sweet wine and little else. At her current stage, she’d had most of a bottle, which was about it for her. If she tried more, she’d soon pass out. If she dared spirits at this point, she’d soon throw up and _then_ pass out.

She didn’t keep spirits in her room, which was where she and Dorian had apparently been drinking. Josephine had given her four bottles of wine a month ago from some comte, and at the rate she drank there were at least three still there before tonight. That meant Dorian was on two bottles plus change, and… _Yep. Hoping Cabot has a brandy worth drinking._

Bull toyed around with the idea of interrupting the party—not to stop it, just to pull them over and settle them with his boys, where they could get as drunk as they liked while someone kept an eye on them. The boss was clearly doing this in an effort to keep Dorian company, but she was a little past the point of being much help. Unfortunately, Dorian probably wouldn’t _want_ help from Bull.

Then he watched Evelyn almost fall over just standing in place, holding on to the counter, and decided _Fuck it, it’s for their own good._

He’d use a buffer, though. He had a great one.

“Hey Krem.”

“Yeah, Chief?”

“Do me a favor. Go ask the boss to join the Chargers.” Krem glanced her way and stood to go do just that. But Bull added, “Actually, ask the Vint to bring her over.”

Krem paused at that and shot him a look. “Ask the _altus_. To join _us_.”

“He won’t spit on you, Krem-puff. Try it and see.”

A single arched eyebrow said, plain as day, _Just you wait._ But Krem didn’t know, yet, that Dorian wasn’t a typical altus. Krem hadn’t been in the field with them and seen how Dorian and Sera got along.

Even so, he respected the “favor.” He made his way over and addressed Dorian, with a little bow that looked pretty Vinty, and a gesture toward the wobbling Inquisitor. By the flicker of surprise on Dorian’s face, Bull guessed he’d spoken in Tevene, too. The surprise was quickly covered, and when the invitation was conveyed, Dorian likewise bowed gallantly, and he and Krem each took one of the Inquisitor’s arms and all but carried her to a good seat at the Chargers’ table.

It was not particularly near Bull, but he welcomed them with a nod and a raised tankard, and made no move to close the distance. Dorian smiled thinly and proceeded to ignore him. Evelyn waved gleefully and then got distracted.

Dalish got the Inquisitor to drink some water, and the group did Dorian the kindness of mostly ignoring him. Evelyn continued to hang on him as she tried to navigate the large number of people, but she soon began to drift, attention lapsing more and more. It was just about time to get her to bed…when Commander Cullen walked in.

Bull smiled internally. _Perfect._

Dorian noted his appearance too. As Cullen scanned the room and found the Inquisitor, Dorian hid a quick smile that seemed to agree with Bull’s feeling.

Cullen reached them and immediately stalled, noticing the Inquisitor’s state. “Ah…forgive me, Inquisitor, but I had some details of the coming journey to…that is, the lady ambassador suggested I ask you to decide…ah. I shouldn’t interrupt your evening. Perhaps…there will be time in the morning.”

Dorian, charming smile in full swing, stood—still pretty steady, too. “Nonsense, Commander. You know we depart at first light, you must see to this immediately. And we should all be retiring soon as it is. Perhaps you could escort Lady Trevelyan to her room, and she could answer your questions on the way.”

Evelyn had been flushed with drink already, but she was a lot redder than that, now. “I’m _fine_ , I can _walk_ , Dorian, I don’t _need_ any help.” She attempted to stand—with no success. “I’ll go _myself_ , and I can answer _all_ the…the things for tomorrow, I’m _fine_.”

Cullen, like everyone, seemed to immediately realize that Her Worship was not going to get back to her room safely alone and would probably kill herself on the stairs without help. “Please, my lady,” he offered, “it is a good suggestion. If I might accompany you, we could discuss the details without any inconvenience…”

Bull had risen and approached, and he gently took hold of the boss’ arms and agreed. “Sounds good, right boss? You can let Cullen walk with you a bit, can’t you?”

Falling against him, Evelyn turned wide eyes on Bull and whispered, “But I have to _stay!_ I’m drinking with _Dorian_ , I can’t go to _bed_ ’til he’s _okay._ ”

It was a little loud, for a whisper, and those nearest—including Cullen and Dorian—easily heard her.

Bull very sincerely nodded and steered her into Cullen’s waiting hands. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll take care of drinking with Dorian. You take care of the Inquisition stuff and get some rest.”

“But I have to…” Cullen started leading her away—half carrying her already. She turned her wide-eyed whisper on him. “I have the…drinks to make up for fathers and _bad_ things, because I’m in _charge_ so I get drinks for _free_. I can…do the _best_ at helping with family things, because, because my family is _mean_ and I got the same mole on my leg as my _dad_ , isn’t that _terrible?_ ”

Cullen was pretty red-faced himself as he got the Inquisitor out the door. By the time they reached the stairs, he’d probably have to give up supporting her weight and just carry her the rest of the way.

“Cute,” Bull grinned after them. Then, as Dorian silently rose and looked like he was about to slip away without further ado, Bull grabbed his tankard and poured it half-full. “Here. Drink up, big guy. A promise is a promise.”

A bitter look. “You needn’t bother yourself with keeping any promises on _my…_ oh!” He’d made a token sniff at the drink and immediately stopped. Rapid blinking. “What _is_ that?”

“ _Maraas-lok_ ,” Bull grinned. “Better than brandy.”

“ _Better_ is a relative term,” Dorian archly commented, but he investigated the tankard more carefully and eventually took a drink.

He didn’t cough. He breathed out, long and slow. Finally, in a faintly raspy voice: “I might have known all along you’d try to poison me. It’s apropos, for a spy.”

Keeping his friendly smile firmly in place, Bull poured himself a little more. “Drink up, Vint. Wash that fruit juice down with something that plays rough.”

“You say that like it’s a positive quality,” Dorian blandly retorted, side-eying Bull.

“It _is_ ,” he said, and he meant it for himself, but for Dorian too. And he meant more than drinks, and Dorian knew it. He didn’t look charmed, but he didn’t get up and leave, either.

_That’s a start._

__\--

Evening was falling, and they’d moved far from the location of the Tal-Vashoth attack. Dorian thought they were fine, now, and hoped Hissrad would tell him any minute that they were close to their destination. He rather dreaded another night in a cave.

Suddenly, in the gathering dusk, a mist concealed the most distant trees—which, in the jungle, were not far off at all.

“ _Shit!_ ”

It wasn’t mist. It was…fog. Thick, from one specific direction, moving fast. In seconds it had swept over them, and all around was grey nothing. Dorian had a vague idea which direction was _away_ from the fog, but little else. It was just like…

_The beach_.

A large shadow was all that remained of Hissrad, but he backed up quick, congealing into something more like his usual form. He crouched near Dorian, eyes peeled, and spoke low and fast. “Scatter, they’ll target our last location. If you know a wide-area fire spell, use it. Might clear some of the fog. Don’t worry about me.”

Then he was gone.

Dorian moved. As fast and quiet as he could, in no particular direction, just _away._

He almost tripped on a tree with thick, tangled roots pulled high out of the ground. It had low-hanging branches, too. Spreading wide…

Dorian got an idea.

With a quick glance around, he scrambled up the roots and grabbed a branch, then pulled himself up. Stood, hugging the trunk, and climbed another branch higher. He heard a sudden _clang_ —blades. He pulled himself another branch higher, murmuring an incantation, and as soon as he was kneeling on the limb, he released the flashfire spell over a large circle of blank grey.

The fog thinned enough for him to catch a glimpse of Hissrad fighting another giant figure. Both moved quick and ruthlessly, both got singed by the flames, and neither flinched. With the moment of visibility, however, Hissrad seemed to find some opening to exploit. Dorian saw him slash across the other man’s throat, and red stained the scene as the fog thickened again.

He stood, several branches high, and noticed that he’d apparently elevated himself above the densest fog. He could see much further from here. Could see the little ground-level pool of nothingness that had surrounded them. He didn’t spend long observing, however. 

He’d marked Hissrad’s last location, and a moment later he began raining fireballs all around, hoping the brute would have the sense not to run straight into one. There was a scream—Dorian responded by pulling a bolt of lightning down upon the spot where the sound had come from. He didn’t know if it hit or missed. Instant death forbade much screaming. But he stopped attacking that spot anyway. He hoped Hissrad had seen the light and heard the scream and could locate the fog warrior with that much. Dorian left the path clear between him and the attacker and went back to trying to find others.

He found one more, in the same manner, before the fog begin to drift away. The breeze had picked up with the arrival of evening, and Dorian could see…

_Kaffas._

Five others, approaching Hissrad. Not grouped together—in a loose line, from one side.

From behind. Hissrad was just putting his blade through another warrior’s chest. The man went down without a sound.

Dorian pulled on the storm again, casting a static cage that grabbed the fog warriors and pulled them together to a central point—a considerably uncomfortable experience, but not enough to kill them. He took a deep breath…

_Don’t give away your position._

_…Fuck it._

“Hissrad, behind you!”

Then he started throwing magic at the group of fog warriors—whatever he could manage with his remaining mana. He saw Hissrad spin, heard his roar as he charged in, swinging a sword with one hand and a dagger ready in the other. He also saw a few of the fog warriors glance up and see him.

One staggered out of the grip of lightning and began to fumble with something that looked like a flask. Dorian concentrated his attacks on him, hoping to stop him from doing whatever it was he was doing—especially if he was trying to make more of that fog.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another draw a bow.

Point it up. Up high. Right at him.

Then everything happened at once.

He poured all the death he had in him at that flask bastard. _Hissrad will stand a chance if the fog clears._ The archer drew the bowstring back. Then, suddenly, he was several feet away, slamming into a tree with a sickening _thud_ , and Hissrad was fighting the other three.

_Beating_ the other three.

The flask bastard fell and stayed down. Dorian turned against the archer.

He fell and stayed down.

Hissrad was down to two, and as he stabbed through one—in the moment his blade was buried in a fog warrior, the last one raised both arms to swing a wicked-looking axe down on his head…

And Dorian was _out of mana…_

So he planted his feet on the tree branch and _threw_ his staff, blade first, at the fog warrior.

It struck in his ribs, under one arm. Didn’t go deep—it wasn’t _that_ well-thrown—but deep enough to wound, and deep enough to stick. And when the weight of the staff pulled _down_ , the blade tried to lever _up_ , and the man crumpled in agony, dropping the axe, and Hissrad had time to spin around and finish the job.

There was a moment of stillness. The rest of the fog swept away. But Dorian knew better than to stay put—his head was spinning. He slid quickly down to sit on the tree branch, then clumsily scrambled down, hoping to reach the ground before he lost his balance and fell to his death.

Hissrad was there at the bottom branch, reaching up, and Dorian didn’t even flinch. He was glad of the extra support of steady hands, pulling him down. He immediately sat on the solid ground. Hissrad went to retrieve his staff.

“I hope…you don’t expect me to run for half a day now,” Dorian mumbled. “I fear I really couldn’t manage it, you see.”

He was blinking away lights in his vision, but he could see the red of blood as Hissrad crouched and handed him his staff. Most of it was splattered on the man, but there were a few long slashes in his skin.

A slow headshake. “It’s almost dark. They won’t track us at night. But we need to move a bit. Get to shelter.”

“ _Is_ there any, near enough?”

A pause. Then a glance upward. “Maybe not. Ever spent the night in a tree?”

“Oh, Maker, at the moment I really don’t think—”

“Not right now. Not this tree, it’s too short.” He stood, pulling Dorian up, slowly. “Come on. A little further, I’ll find a better tree. Don’t worry, you won’t fall.”

Unable to quite put together a sufficiently insulted response in the moment, Dorian staggered, trying to follow. Hissrad turned and, without a word, bent and wrapped an arm around him, helping him along. Dorian didn’t have the best riposte for _that_ , either, so he allowed himself to quietly accept the help, secure in the knowledge that he’d deliver something appropriately cutting later. When the world wasn’t spinning anymore.

\--

Dorian was _drunk_.

Not quite as drunk as last time—or maybe he just hadn’t passed out yet. But he was drunk enough that Bull had a good excuse to help him back to his room.

“This is what you were after all along, isn’t it. Bastard.” Dorian sounded bleary and a little sick.

“Yup,” Bull agreed patiently. “Just had to play my cards right. Been waiting for the chance to get puked on by an altus.”

Dorian snorted. “You have the most appalling interests.”

“Mm,” Bull rumbled. “There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do. Most people think that’s a good thing. Works in their favor, anyway.”

“Hah,” Dorian intoned. “I’m drunk, you wretched spy, but I’m not going to fall into your arms and spill all my Tevinter secrets. So if, if you’re helping me right now so that you can in…interrogate me, save your time and give up now, because—”

“Dorian. No interrogations. Just get up these stairs and I’ll leave you alone.” _Mostly_.

So maybe it was true that Bull was still hoping the Vint would get tired of his game at some point—and maybe alcohol had been known to loosen lips before. He figured Dorian was probably better than most at keeping his head when drunk, but it couldn’t hurt to see what happened…so yeah. He was still listening.

But damn it, this was for everyone’s good, at this point. Bull had reported what he could report, and the Ben-Hassrath had their investigation to conduct to find out if Dorian had any contact with other agents of theirs who might have leaked something to him. That wasn’t Bull’s problem anymore. Bull’s problem was…it was…

Maybe it was that he didn’t know what to _do_ with this guy, and if he didn’t figure this out he was going to hurt somebody. Probably Dorian. Probably by hitting him _really, really hard_ , which would satisfy all kinds of primal needs but it just wasn’t an option as long as they were working together like this.

Or—given a nice, sober _yes_ —he could also just fuck the guy _really, really hard_. That wouldn’t be a bad idea either, but between the two, Bull usually leaned toward wanting to punch him in the face. He just wanted Dorian to _explain_ himself and his crazy story, because Bull wasn’t getting _anywhere_ with this, and it was driving him nuts. Then again…

Maybe he really should push the seduction thing harder. Maybe just offering wasn’t persuasive enough. And seduction had gotten the truth out of tough cases before…

But…Bull wasn’t under orders to do that. Not this time. If they did order him, he would try it, and he had a feeling Dorian wasn’t anywhere _near_ as disinterested as he pretended to be, but Bull…didn’t want to get the truth that way. Not if he had other options left.

_Like getting the guy drunk and talking to him._

__Deep breath. _Okay_.

“You’re doing all right, Dorian. Family stuff can be rough.”

“Can it? Do tell, you must be an _expert_.” Most of the acid in Dorian’s response was a little defused as he staggered and slumped his entire weight against Bull for a moment. Steadying him, Bull kept him upright and moving forward. He didn’t think carrying Dorian princess-style would be as good an idea for them as it was for Cullen and Evelyn. It would be quicker than this, though.

“Nope. So anyway,” Bull changed the subject, looking for something Dorian would respond less angrily to, “how did you even get this far South without your family finding you and taking you back?”

Dorian glared at the ground. “They did, once. I hadn’t left Tevinter. They locked me up. I learned my lesson. When I escaped the second time, I ran as far as I could without stopping, and I kept out of sight as much as I could.”

“You live in the woods and eat nugs or something?”

Head rolling on his shoulders, Dorian huffed, “While I do wear the rugged look far better than most, no. At least…not generally. I had quite a lot of jewelry on my person when I ran. I sold it or traded it piece by piece to pay for my journey. I managed tolerably, though it’s fortunate I was able to join the Inquisition when I did.”

“Out of jewelry?”

“Entirely.” He sighed. “The last thing I sold was my birthright. I was in Orlais and had nothing to get to Redcliff on. The amulet isn’t made of anything particularly valuable, but the prat of a merchant who bought it…” A faint snarl. “I had another merchant I could have sold it to as well, but Ponchard offered more, Void take him.”

Bull blinked. “You cursing a guy for paying you more than another guy?”

Dorian huffed, shaking his wobbling head. “Not that. I’ve enough coin now that I should be able to buy the amulet back, but he won’t sell it. I should have sold it to the other one, but I didn’t know Ponchard was such a…” Dorian lapsed into Tevene—mostly swearing.

“You need it back for some reason?” Bull’s voice was perfectly casual. _Could be something to do with his plans…_

But Dorian frustrated him again—this time, apparently with an honest answer. “It’s mine and it should be in _my_ hands, not some Orlesian ass-licking…”

Bull let Dorian throw obscenities around for a while. They neared his room. And once again, Bull had made no progress. _Try a different angle._

“Think Cullen will ask the boss to dance at that big party we’re going to?”

Dorian grunted. “No, but he should. Those two are taking a dreadfully long time to get matters officially started between them.”

“Some reason they should?”

Unexpectedly, Dorian broke out laughing.

Already wobbly on his feet, he collapsed against Bull, very nearly _giggling_. Bull caught him, kept him standing, but moving was a little out of the question for a moment, unless he wanted to just pick Dorian up. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh,” Dorian’s laugh hitched. “ _You_. You utterly persistent, pig-headed, wrong-footed…” He broke off, coughing a moment before laughing again. “I know that tone, Iron Bull. Still picking away at the suspicious Vint, so casual on the surface. Such a disaster for you.” The laughter suddenly stuttered out, Dorian’s expression darkening. He tried to right himself, didn’t quite make it, and grabbed the strap of Bull’s harness for support. His grip was like iron. “They should be together because they would be happier that way,” he pronounced slowly, eyes drilling into Bull’s. “There. Is. No. Scheme.”

His gut was doing something weird, but Bull kept his face expressionless. “Got some kind of magical mind-reading spell, Dorian?”

The severe expression melted away suddenly as Dorian’s knees buckled. Bull caught him, then gave up trying to get him to walk and just picked him up. They were almost at Dorian’s room anyway. Dorian grunted, but his head lolled onto Bull’s shoulder and he left it there. Slowly, a hand lifted and brushed over Bull’s chest. His voice, when he answered, was suddenly distant. Wistful. Bull kept walking, listening, waiting for Dorian to give something away. “When I met you, you were so different. There was so little pertension…preformance. Mm. Whatever.” He sighed, shifting to fit more comfortably into Bull’s arms. “Suspicion and fear, yes. At first. But you were _you_. Now you only _look_ like you. Sound like you. Except sometimes.”

“Yeah? Like when?” This could be good. Let Dorian reveal which parts of the act he actually did believe…

A low, bitter chuckle. “Almost never. But…” His eyes lifted to Bull’s face. “Remember when we had to turn back in the Hinterlands? We ran into that Ferelden Frostback?”

Bull blinked, just once. He _did_ remember. He’d been burning up with excitement, like when they saw the Vinsomer on the Storm Coast—but Dorian hadn’t joined them yet at that point. And he’d been unable to look away from the _ataashi_ circling above them, but just on the edge of his awareness, he’d felt Dorian turn away from the rest of them, from the valley before them. Maybe hiding a response he couldn’t quite suppress. At the time, Bull had figured it was all just the dragon in front of them.

“Yeah?”

A silent moment. Then—whispered, so softly—“That was you.” The wind on the battlements almost stole it away, even though Dorian was so close. In his arms.

And he was right. In that moment, there had been no performance whatsoever. No calculation, and no thought of trying. It was fine, because getting excited about a dragon fit the Qunari merc, but just then, it wouldn’t have mattered if it did or didn’t.

_Huh._ Dorian was _good._

It was…unsettling. Maybe a little scary. But playing it casual seemed like it was guaranteed to fail, so Bull went for a bit of candor instead. Candor seemed to be the only thing that didn’t run up against a stone wall. “So, when we met on Seheron—and got to know each other—I was being more myself. On Seheron. With a Vint. When I was Hissrad.”

“You’re still Hissrad,” Dorian mumbled. “It’s simply accurate, now.” He poked Bull in the chest with a single finger. “I looked it up. After. Found out what it means. An’ I thought it was true then too, but you weren’t. You’d been stationed there by the Ben-Hassrath, but all your lies were gone before I ever met you.” He swallowed. “Now they’re back.”

_Pushing the reeducation explanation again_ , he noted. “Okay…but why would I be so friendly and honest with a _Vint?_ That’s not how it goes on Seheron. Or did I forget about that too? Did we have a special ‘friendly zone’ where we all stopped fighting and had nice chats over tea?”

Dorian giggled into his shoulder, but it sounded…odd. Broken. Almost like crying. “No, you oaf. We met under quite unique circumstances, but that isn’t the point. This is my room here, put me down.”

Bull blinked and obeyed. Dorian swayed, bracing himself against the door. He stared hard at its wooden surface. “Oh, this is going to be difficult.”

“What is?”

With a hand raised toward the door, Dorian answered, “It has no lock, and it won’t stay closed on its own, the miserable thing. Every time the wind shifts, it blows open. I cast a spell on it to hold it shut. Now I’ve…I must get it open. An’ then close it again. Oh dear.”

“Have you put in a work order for—”

“Shh! Concentrating.”

Bull waited in silence, and in a moment there was a shimmer and the door swung crookedly open. Dorian made a _humph_ of victory and leaned back against the door frame. “The workers reported that they’d taken care of it, but they never arrived to even make an attempt. Now. What was I saying?”

“You were going to tell me why I was honest with a Vint on Seheron.”

Slowly, slowly, Dorian grinned. All teeth, and sad, pitying eyes. “No I wasn’t. You must remember that for yourself.”

_Fucking shit altus bastard._ Punching Dorian in the face was looking _so good_ right now…

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

Dorian raised a shaky arm and hooked his fingers in the strap of Bull’s harness again. “Well, perhaps you should start by believing that there is, in fact, something to remember. Quite a lot of something, actually.”

Okay. _That_ was a new implication. 

“So…we weren’t just having tea? We were having sex?”

All expression on Dorian’s face melted away into something…very sad. “If you had bedded a Vint…the Ben-Hassrath would not have liked that, I imagine. But…the reeducators? Would it have been necessary to erase all memory of it from your mind?”

They’d touched on this before. Bull decided to be less dismissive of the idea now. See how Dorian responded. “Maybe,” he cautiously admitted. “If I was going Tal-Vashoth.”

A little smile—which did not diminish the sadness. “You have a reputation for enjoying certain things, Bull. But we both know…” He shifted away from the door frame, pulling himself close by Bull’s harness, “…that you would not leave the Qun just for that.”

And then—maybe as a punctuation to that point, maybe out of the muddle of Dorian’s drunk brain, maybe for no reason at all—Dorian pulled down, reached up, and kissed him. And whatever Bull had thought kissing Dorian would be like—angry, hateful, filthy, lustful—it hadn’t been _this_.

It was sweet, and heartbroken, and very nearly chaste. It reminded Bull of the conversation he’d overheard between Dorian and Evelyn in the kitchen. The sadness and longing…

Bull pulled away. It was…wrong. He’d listened to that conversation for information and gotten feelings that were none of his business. Or…well, maybe they _were_ , but he shouldn’t have learned of them like that—with Dorian unawares. And now Dorian was drunk, and Bull shouldn’t take this from him. Information, answers—yes. Dorian’s heart—no.

So he broke the kiss and pulled back, and he knew it was the right thing to do but _fuck_. It didn’t _feel_ right. It felt like a grappling hook in his stomach, a broadsword in his chest. His short fingers twitched, stinging with a sharp, hot pain. And Dorian’s beautiful, sad face looked up at him, and _fuck…_

“I understand.” He patted Bull, once, and then grabbed the door frame to steady himself as he turned away and went inside. “You don’t want me anymore.”

_Shit._

The door closed, and Bull waited a full minute before Dorian finally succeeded in re-casting his spell, causing the magical shimmer to flash briefly over the wood.

_Fuck_.

He turned and headed back to his room.

It was a relief, if nothing else, to know that Dorian could misunderstand him after all. _So much for a magical mind-reading spell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: My novel _The Conqueror_ is free right now. Can't link to it because of Rules, sorry. But happy Valentine's Day! :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter Palace before Adamant, y'all. Totally possible, actually. Know how I know? On my first playthrough, I accidentally did this. With Evelyn Trevelyan. We're such a bad Inquisitor. XP
> 
> Also, how does a bit more Seheron sound? ;)

Bull had expected shopping in Val Royeaux to be a chore, but aside from the uniform fitting—which wasn’t great, standing still in one place for so long made his bad leg ache—it turned out to be a lot better than he expected. Mostly because they were there on the Inquisition’s gold, and even the uniform fitting came with a free dinner—a very nice dinner, arranged and paid for by Josephine. The Inquisitor and her party were known to be attending the ball at the Winter Palace in one week, and she could not be seen in Val Royeaux slumming it in an ordinary tavern. Likewise, her companions.

They did a lot of provisioning while they were here, too. And took care of some matters that had been waiting in the wings for Trevelyan to have time to make the trip. And attended a number of smaller functions with nobility who were in a position to aid the Inquisition, but not in a position to travel to Skyhold to discuss matters.

And Sera found some trouble to get into, and dragged along several others. She wasn’t going to the ball—just a tagalong for the shopping trip, come to tease Evelyn about her bright red jacket and sash.

There was down time, too, and Bull used some of it to look someone up.

The merchant, Ponchard.

He found the guy, and had a nice, friendly chat with him. Totally casual and up-front. _I happen to know Lord Pavus, he mentioned you won’t sell back his family amulet, any particular reason?_ Ponchard had given Dorian an ultimatum, which he didn’t mind repeating. _Oh, meet in person, and bring along his dear friend, Evelyn Trevelyan? Some reason for that?_ But on that point Ponchard grew less talkative. He wanted a favor only the Inquisitor could grant—he wouldn’t say what.

Bull wasn’t interested in reveling his Ben-Hassrath connections, but he _did_ ask, just to be sure, if the Inquisitor’s spymaster or ambassador couldn’t handle the favor. Apparently they could not, which meant Bull probably couldn’t swing it with a Ben-Hassrath contact, either.

So he dropped a note in a dead drop.

\--

Gaspard ruled Orlais, Briala had a stranglehold on him, and Cullen had been prodded enough that he went to speak to Evelyn after Florianne was dealt with, but those watching didn’t see any dancing. He stood beside the Inquisitor for a while and they talked, and when they came back Evelyn looked much happier.

But that wasn’t good enough for Dorian and Varric. And Bull, to a certain extent. Not that he considered it his business to meddle and force things, but he shared the opinion that—viewed on neutral ground, with no political schemes afoot—Evelyn and Cullen would be good for each other.

There were many nobles asking the Inquisitor to dance, now, and she politely did, but those who knew her could guess that the Orlesians were wearing on her. Bull eventually cut in to spare her from a rather poncy-looking one, and Dorian stepped up and asked her to dance after that.

Then Varric got to work on Cullen.

“Oh, look at that, the song is ending. Aw shit. That comte is going to ask her again if you don’t do something…”

“What? Why should I…”

“She can’t _stand_ that guy. After all she’s done tonight, she doesn’t deserve to be bothered by an ass like him. Come on, Curly, step up. Sparkler can’t keep her for two songs without starting some nasty rumors. Get in there and save her!”

It was the perfect way to put it. _Good one, Varric._

So, while the private balcony would have been more romantic, Cullen still dared to request a dance, and Evelyn _glowed_ all through it. Even though the Commander actually wasn’t a great dancer, as everyone could see.

But maybe that was even better. A little awkward stumbling might make the court gossip and judge, but it made Evelyn laugh. And when her helpful instructions didn’t help much, they both ended up laughing and ignoring the court, and that was the biggest victory of all.

\--

They all had rooms in the palace. Bull checked his room thoroughly, as was his habit, and found a wrapped object between the fresh towels in the adjoining washroom. _Good work, team._

He’d asked a spy to steal something for him, and either they worked here or they’d passed the object on to another Ben-Hassrath who did. Bull shucked his jacket and shirt and was working on his close-fitting trousers as he unwrapped Dorian’s amulet.

Yup, that was a Tevinter family crest, and…

Suddenly, he wasn’t in Orlais anymore. He remembered heat, and bright daylight, and he was looking down at the amulet and saying…

_“A peacock, huh? Never seen this crest before.”_

_“I suppose you wouldn’t have. My house has been to this island, of course, but not in either of our lifetimes.”_

_“Well, thanks. The Vints will recognize it and know we’ve really got an altus to trade.”_

_He could feel someone smile, but couldn’t see them. “Not going to ask after the name of my house this time?”_

_He thought he probably shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anymore. You can tell me if you want.”_

_A laugh. A beautiful, familiar laugh. “And give you an excuse to start calling me Lord? I’d rather stick with just—”_

A wall of blackness slammed down over the memory, and Bull was back in his room in Orlais. He was shaking, like he’d dropped suddenly into ice water.

_What…was that?_

He didn’t remember that. Or…he had never remembered it before. But it _felt_ so familiar—being somewhere hot, looking at _this amulet_ , and a voice…

He…he liked that voice. But everything else—the way it came back to him, the blackness surrounding it on all sides, and the little amulet in his palm still looking so familiar-but-not—it was terrifying.

Bull put the amulet down on a nearby bureau, a little quick like it was burning him. Then he stared at it for another minute. Now that it was there, he could replay the memory, but no amount of searching could add to it.

Slowly, methodically, he finished undressing. He was here. He was in Orlais. He was The Iron Bull, Ben-Hassrath agent. And…he remembered holding this amulet before.

The person smiling at him, talking casually—teasing, even—and laughing…

_Don’t muddle it just to hide from the truth. It had to be Dorian._

Unless Dorian had a brother…

Fact: Ben-Hassrath confirmed already he doesn’t and never did.

Fact: No one else would have had this amulet, and the snippets of conversation he could remember made it pretty clear the amulet belonged to the one talking.

It was Dorian. It had to be Dorian. Even though he hadn’t seen him in the memory, it had to be. He remembered…talking to Dorian, somewhere hot ( _Seheron, Seheron…_ ), about this amulet. He _remembered_ something he had _never remembered before._

Bull lay down and started doing deep, meditative breathing. There was only one implication, but he needed to center himself before he faced it. And then he’d need to write a report. And then he’d need to decide what to do with the amulet.

Step by step. Nice, neat, all in order.

\--

Despite the height to which they had to climb to be safe from predators, Dorian felt…rather all right in this tree.

Not that it was _comfortable_. Not by any means. But the branches were surprisingly sturdy and broad, even way up here, and he could lay on his stomach close to the trunk, with his feet lodged in the crooks of smaller branches just below, and Hissrad had tied strong vines around both of them and anchored them to their branches, just in case. 

They were beside each other, more or less, though pointed outward, and Hissrad was somewhat below him—“To catch you if you fall, Vint.”

“With your horns? Delightful.”

But now, resting his cheek on an arm, he found he could glance down at the man’s broad back—even more as the night deepened and the moons rose. And yes, there it was—the inescapable truth that loincloths concealed the essentials in front, and not quite as much in back, when you got right down to it.

Annoyed with himself, Dorian looked out over the jungle.

It was…rather breathtaking, actually.

They were not looking down over everything, but they were high enough to see through the patches of canopy, like a labyrinth of moonlight and leafy shadow. It was like being in another world.

_I wish Felix could see this._

Not that he could recommend the deadly perils or the accommodations, but the place did have a few…merits all its own, Dorian decided, gaze sliding to the side again.

“How are your wounds?”

“Fine.” A pause. “Stings a bit.”

He waited a moment, but that seemed to be it. “Will we reach your base tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Took a detour, but it’s not even half a day away, now.”

“And how will your people react, do you think, when they see you returning in the company of an unrestrained _bas saarebas?_ ”

Hissrad snorted. “They’ll freak out. Don’t worry though. I’ll calm them down. Just try not to do anything magical. Put the staff away, try to look harmless. Don’t panic.”

Dorian let a little sneer into his voice. “I am _far_ from harmless, and just as far from panicking over the prospect of meeting your countrymen.”

Hissrad’s head turned enough for him to glance upward. “You might panic with twenty blades drawn on you from all sides.” Before Dorian could disagree—though in fact, that might be a tense sort of introduction to the Qunari—he continued. “Just do me a favor and stand there looking aloof, like you’re too bored to worry about knives and swords and shit.”

_That…does sound like something I’d do._ Dorian felt a flicker of annoyance that this Qunari had figured him out so well, so quickly. “Usually in Tevinter only the truly powerful can face threats that way. Wouldn’t that be counter-productive?”

“Nah.” Hissrad began carefully shifting, until he ended up lying on his back. “Your clothes and your staff say _magister_ already; that’s all they need. It’s more of a problem if you look scared. We usually see the worst surprises from scared mages.”

“Ah.” 

“Yeah.”

_Abominations,_ of course. Mages with ambition but not quite enough status often tried a stint on Seheron to add patriotic heroism to their accomplishments. Not all returned. And with how prevalent blood magic was in Tevinter already, Dorian wasn’t surprised.

The silence lengthened, the dark gathered. Finally: “Hey.”

“Yes?” Dorian glanced down to find eyes steadily looking up at him.

“Thanks. For today. For saving my life.”

Quite surprised, Dorian kept his answer disinterested. “Well. You’ve made it abundantly clear that I will surely die here without your assistance. So it seems I must keep you alive, in self-interest.”

“Mmm.” The irritating bastard didn’t even have the decency to appear offended.

“And, after all, you’ve saved my life as well. It seemed…only equitable.”

There was enough moonlight for Dorian to catch Hissrad’s grin. “You know, Vint, you’re pretty sweet under all that bitching.”

“I am not sweet, don’t be absurd,” Dorian huffed.

“Yeah you are. You’re sugar cane, Vint. Tough and nasty on the outside, juicy and delicious underneath.”

Appalled, Dorian pushed himself up on his arms and leaned over to stare down at Hissrad. “ _Juicy and delicious?_ You utterly vulgar brute!”

Tragically, the Qunari’s voice went a little softer on his reply—though his grin didn’t fade at all. “I was talking about your personality, Dorian. What’s vulgar about that?”

He swallowed. Returned to his branch, crossing his arms and settling his chin on them. Sulking a little, maybe. “ _Sweet_ can refer to personality, I’ll grant that much,” he mumbled. “ _Juicy and delicious_ are not words used to describe…anything abstract.”

“Ohh.” Dorian heard shifting. “Shame on me, I guess. I get the context wrong with Common words sometimes.” Suddenly, Dorian was blinking at a massive bicep. Hissrad was kneeling on his own branch, and had settled his crossed arms on Dorian’s. His head tilted as he regarded Dorian. “You’re still sweet, though.”

“I beg to differ.” Dorian tried to subtly scoot back, and find something else to look at.

“Bet it’s tough for you, back home.”

Dorian froze. “What?”

Clever, bright eyes watched him. “Like I said. You’re sweet. You do a good job acting like an asshole, but from what I know of Tevinter, you need to be rotten to the core to get along well there. But you—yesterday you didn’t even see me as a person, and today you like me.”

Offended face in full swing, Dorian countered. “I absolutely do _not_. What gave you such a preposterous notion, other than your own colossal vanity?”

A crooked smile. “You’re lying about why you saved my life. I think the truth is, you didn’t want to see me die. And I think the reason is—you like me.” He shrugged. “I’m trained to deal with very complex stuff, but one thing I’ve learned here on Seheron—no matter how complicated _situations_ get, _people_ are people. You can’t overthink it with people. The simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

Dorian frowned at that, then slowly sat up. Hissrad leaned back and returned to his own branch. “I have no reason in the world to like a Qunari.”

Another shrug. “I’m all you’ve got right now. That’s enough, most of the time. And I’m a charmer.” He winked.

Dorian wanted to glare, but he bit his lip instead. Hissrad would see through it, anyway. “I…I don’t entirely trust you.”

“Smart guy. I wouldn’t, in your position.”

Chewing his lip a little: “I’m worried you won’t keep your word once safe among your people.”

“That’s a fair doubt. I could have made up the prisoner exchange to get you to stop freaking out and follow me quietly.” He cracked a smile again. “Not that you’ve been all that quiet.”

He snorted. “Aren’t you going to attempt to reassure me?”

Hissrad sighed. “Can’t, Vint. All I had to give you when we met was my word, and that’s all I’ve got now, too. You can take it or leave it. The proof is in action—tomorrow.”

“That’s…true, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Hey?”

“Yes?”

“Could you stop chewing your lip? It’s distracting.”

Dorian stopped, and sealed his mouth in a thin line instantly.

An amiable grin. “Thanks. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t bother you. It’s just a really nice mouth.”

“Everything about me is nice,” Dorian answered automatically. A little hollowly.

“I bet.” It wasn’t said with a leer, however. Just…honest agreement.

Absolutely off-balance and at a loss, Dorian opened his mouth and just… “You’re right. About me in Tevinter. I can…I can handle it. I mean, I’m wonderful at it, I’m a smashing success. But it…it’s hard. What I am…I don’t always fit.”

“Okay.” Calm. Steady. Listening.

_I really shouldn’t tell anything to a Qunari._

__“I’m running away because…because my father was going to perform a blood magic ritual on me. Entirely without my consent.”

The sharp features had become a little sharper. “ _Why?_ ”

There was a lump in Dorian’s throat. He swallowed. “I’m…his only heir. I’m supposed to marry, and continue the family line. But I, I don’t desire intimacy with any woman, so I’ve rather made a point of refusing the job, so to speak.”

Eyes a little wide, Hissrad slowly shifted until he was leaning back against the trunk of the tree, gazing outward, one foot up on the branch, one massive arm draped over the knee. Dorian continued to face him. The silence felt eternal.

Finally, Hissrad held that hand up, with a single finger. “One—blood magic is shit. Two—” Another finger, “forcing you is shit. Three—Tevinter is shit to put the wrong role on you like that. Four—you’re kind of shit, for refusing the role you were given.”

Dorian swallowed again. The lump was back in his throat, suddenly.

“But then,” Hissrad added, “I guess if Tevinter hadn’t made it something more shit than it should have been, you wouldn’t have refused it. So.” He finally looked up at Dorian. “That’s a pretty big mess. Lots of shit. Kind of like here, I guess.” He opened his hand toward the jungle. “When nobody’s really right, what can you do?”

Dorian refrained from biting his lip. He swallowed hard again. “I rather thought I was in the right, actually.”

Hissrad nodded. “So does everybody. You, your father, the Vints, the blood mages…the fog warriors, the Tal-Vashoth, the Qun. But it all comes out wrong, and everyone thinks it’s the other guy’s fault.”

“So…so what _should_ I have done?” Dorian’s voice was thin, but he absolutely would not let it tremble. He felt like there was a dagger in his back.

A slow shake of his head. “Don’t know. If you were given a role that’s right for you, I’d say—do what you’re meant to. Play your part. Everyone has a role in life. You only make yourself sick by turning away from it, and you make everyone else suffer when they have to find someone else to take your place. But it sounds like they tried to put you in the wrong role. That’s like everyone else deciding to make themselves sick just to hurt one person. So I don’t know.” He swept his arm wide. “What am I supposed to do with this island? I don’t know that either. Pull out? Leave the Tal-Vashoth to kill everyone? Let Tevinter try to take over, so they can bring their sickness here?” He dropped his arm back on his knee. “Sometimes all you can do is keep trying, even when you’re wrong, even if you’re part of the problem.” Then, slowly, he looked at Dorian again. “Running away is shit…usually. But maybe you’re right to run. If you can find the right place for yourself somewhere else…maybe running is the best thing you can do.”

Dorian’s vision blurred, suddenly. He blinked, and hot tears spilled down his cheeks. Swallowing and _swallowing_ he brushed them quickly away, turning himself away as well. When he thought his voice might be trusted, he weakly answered, “I don’t much care for your opinion.”

“Yeah. Nobody likes someone who disagrees with them.”

“And refers to them as ‘shit,’” Dorian added.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“I…” Dorian swallowed again. “I really don’t like you.”

“That’s all right. I like you, Vint.”

Dorian ducked his head. “You’re intolerable,” he whispered.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I…” He dropped one arm, one hand—the one nearer Hissrad. “Thank you. For your honesty and…so forth.”

His hand hung there for a moment. Then, slowly, he felt a gentle touch. Warmth, and very tough skin.

Their palms moved together, and very carefully squeezed and held there in silence, suspended high above the jungle and all the evils in the world. Just for one night.

\--

At the end of a detailed report on the events at the Winter Palace:

_I experienced a flashback to an event on Seheron that I have no other memory of. Part of a conversation. Cannot remember more. Cannot forget flashback. Request instruction._

\--

Morning was warm and damp—not as hot as the day would be, but still never _cool_ in the jungle. Dorian climbed down the tree that had provided an overnight home, his whole body stiff and sore from the strain of the last few days—and then, of course, sleeping on a branch. Hissrad dropped to the soft earth below, and Dorian stretched to get his feet to touch the last branch before slipping off the one above it. He managed, and moved to sit on the lowest branch, wishing for a few extra steps between him and the ground.

Then: “Here,” Hissrad said, turning, and extending his arms upward.

Dorian didn’t have time to think, much less protest. Massive hands wrapped around his hips, lifted him, and lowered him to the ground. Dorian’s hands landed on huge, muscled shoulders, gripping tight for stability.

Time…stopped.

As his feet met the earth, Hissrad’s hands loosened, but did not quite let go. They slid up his sides as Dorian’s hands began to ease down, toward the man’s chest. Their eyes were locked, and Dorian suddenly found he simply couldn’t _breathe…_

And then Hissrad swallowed and cleared his throat, blinked and released him and turned away. “Come on, this way,” he said, voice rough and a little unsteady.

So…Dorian followed. His heart still racing, his skin still prickling…he followed that broad, powerful back through the trees.

\--

_Continue in your assignment._

_Agents have discovered a Venatori operation to move red lyrium into Minrathous. We offer the leaders of the Inquisition the details below and suggest a cooperative counter-action as the prelude to a possible ongoing alliance…_

\--

“Hey, big guy?”

Dorian glanced up from his research with a mildly inquisitive, polite expression on his face. When he saw Bull, it almost slipped—tightened, just for a moment—but he held the façade. “Can I help you?”

Bull cleared his throat. “A friend of mine was…lifting a few things from a guy who shouldn’t have them, and they found this.” He set Dorian’s amulet on his desk. “Looked Vinty. You know what it is?”

Dorian blinked, his hand gently taking up the amulet, fingers tracing the surface. “Do I know what it is.” He paused, then looked up at Bull. “You couldn’t come up with a likelier story? I thought you were a _good_ liar.”

“Sorry?”

Dorian gave him an impatient look. “This is my house amulet, which I sold, and the odds against such a happenstance return are poor enough, even if I did not also mention it to you specifically not long ago.”

“Crap,” Bull grunted. “Thought you’d forgotten that.”

With a bland smile, Dorian sighed, “Yes, everyone underestimates my brilliance. And you continue to doubt my memory—you, with more holes in your own memory than Ander cheese. The irony.”

“Right,” Bull grumbled. It wasn’t a new statement, it just hadn’t…landed, with him, when Dorian had said it before.

And now he had a flashback surrounded by nothingness in his head, and the Ben-Hassrath didn’t seem to give a shit, and what was he supposed to do with the damn amulet now? Whatever use he might have had for it seemed pointless—and if Dorian was right and his memory _was_ fucked, pretty much everything was pointless, so why not just give it back and see what happened?

“So.” Dorian studied him. “Care to explain why you decided to acquire this for me? And how you accomplished it, and how much in your debt I now stand?”

“No debt,” he grunted. “A friend really did steal it, and it was no trouble. I wanted to try a peace offering, or something…I don’t know. Doesn’t matter now.” He shrugged. “Hey, see you when we get back from the Storm Coast.”

“Indeed,” Dorian answered, eyes still lingering on Bull. Thoughtful.

He turned to go.

“Thank you,” Dorian added, to his back.

“Sure.” Bull’s fingers itched a little, but he didn’t turn back.

\--

The jungle looked no different to Dorian than the moment he entered it. The fact that there were noisy bird calls was nothing new.

That Hissrad now stopped every fifty paces to answer one… _was_ new.

“We’re here,” Hissrad suddenly announced. Dorian continued to follow, looking around, and he opened his mouth to question the mad statement, because they were still in the jungle and there was _nothing here…_

And then they stepped through another clump of trees and undergrowth and they were in some kind of jungle-village-fortress.

It was a clearing, and there were buildings on the ground, but there were also a few massive jungle trees with all the undergrowth cleared away from them. Their low branches were gone, too, but high up—well beyond the reach of four Qunari stacked on top of each other—the trees suddenly had branches again, and wooden structures, and ropes between them…

And, as promised, in the very next moment Dorian was surrounded by sharp metal on all sides. Many of the blades were dangerously close to his throat, too. Hissrad was all but invisible beyond the mountain of muscled flesh.

_Keep calm, Dorian Pavus. Brutes with knives are not intimidating to one such as you._

Hissrad’s voice was loud and firm, but speaking words Dorian did not know. The other Qunari seemed to be listening, but none of them responded right away. Then, suddenly, almost all of them flinched. Many turned to look at Hissrad in surprise or shock—the degrees varied, but the expression was fairly obvious on all of them.

_Well. That’s interesting._

There was more talking—or rather, arguing. Others arrived, Qunari who seemed to have rank enough to disagree with Hissrad, though not, apparently, enough to overrule him. Finally, the welcoming party broke up. Hissrad approached him, sighing and looking a bit uneasy.

“Look, I need a favor. Just…for now. Help me convince them you don’t need to be killed.”

“I suspect I’m going to dislike this favor.”

A grunt. Hissrad pointed to an open area, where a few Qunari had gone to do…something. “They’re using…eh, I don’t know what you call it. They can make a circle on the ground that will cancel magic. You step into it, it’s pretty much like you’ve got a _saarebas_ collar on.” He saw the dark look beginning on Dorian’s face. “There’s no wall, no fence, and no restraints. There will be a guard watching you, but he’ll keep his distance…if you step into the circle on your own, and stay there for a while.”

“A _while?_ ”

“Look, I need to talk to some people. And I need to convince some people that you aren’t controlling me with blood magic. So, if you’d do me a favor and show everyone you’re no threat, and just wait like that a while, I’ll be done by tonight and I’ll get you some hot food and a nice bed to sleep in for a change. Well,” he cringed a little. “Nicest bed we’ve got, anyway.”

Dorian stared at Hissrad for a long moment, calculating. Then, he took a deep breath. “I must be suicidal,” he muttered. With that, he unslung his staff from its holster and handed it to Hissrad and turned and walked to the circle and waiting guards. He eyed the thing with distaste. Posture perfect, he spoke lightly, “I should like some water, if it isn’t too much trouble. Preferably without any poison added to it.” With that, he stepped into the circle.

The loss of his magic slammed into him. It was like sudden total silence that made your ears ring, or sudden darkness that made colored spots appear. He shuddered. _Well, whatever they’ve done, magebane is involved in some fashion._ Utterly uncomfortable, Dorian stepped to the middle of the circle with perfect grace and ease.

“Thank you.” Hissrad’s eyes were…Dorian wasn’t equipped to analyze what Hissrad’s eyes were, so he put it aside. “I’ll get you some water, K—Dorian.”


	9. Chapter 9

The best bed in the Qunari base turned out to be a hammock.

After a long, dull afternoon, Hissrad returned and Dorian was allowed to leave his magic-suppressing spot. He discovered that the huts on the ground were mostly storage or work spaces. People spent the night in the trees, and as Dorian climbed a rather unnerving ladder to such an extraordinary height, he felt the breeze pick up the higher he got. It whisked away the day’s heat that was trapped close to the ground. It was almost pleasant up here.

Hissrad brought him food—an utterly foreign dish that he could only describe as “curry stew.” There was very little meat, mostly a wide variety of vegetables, but the spices were delicious, and it was satisfying. In short— _wonderful_ after days of nearly nothing but fruit.

He had a banana afterward. Hissrad handed it to him with a smile in his eyes, and Dorian took it with an aloof “thank you” and did _not_ reopen the subject of whatever this thing was called in Qunlat.

Only—he did eat it rather slowly. Not with any blatantly filthy actions, of course. Just slowly taking small bites, gently with his teeth, lips folding over the bite and squeezing just the tiniest bit each time. Did he imagine Hissrad’s eyes following, noting, lingering?

_Dorian Pavus, you are the worst sort of tease and you should be ashamed._

Then he was shown to a hammock, which was well-padded enough to be rather comfortable. It was inside a structure, but everything was built with a rather open design, allowing the breeze to move through freely. The air carried the heavy, thick scents of life—so much greenery, so many flowers—but the noises of the animals were distant from up here. It was peaceful.

Hissrad’s voice in the dark said something in Qunlat.

“What was that?”

“Mm. Something like, ‘The stars are quiet above the storm.’ It’s from the Qun. It’s supposed to mean that our troubles are small and temporary, and order exists beyond all chaos. But here on Seheron, we usually say it on a quiet night, and we mean that no matter what bloody battles we just fought, the stars bring stillness when night falls.” Dorian heard him shift in the dark. “Not that we never have attacks at night. But mostly the fighting takes place in the daytime.”

They were both quiet for a while. Then: “What did you say that surprised everyone so much, when we first arrived?”

He heard Hissrad shift again. “Not much. I called you a friend. They weren’t expecting that.”

It seemed like a bit of an over-reaction, to Dorian, but then again… “I suppose you might be the first Qunari to call a Tevinter mage a friend on this whole island.”

“At least for a couple ages,” Hissrad agreed.

\--

“Good to see you again, Hissrad.”

Bull beamed. “Gatt!” He introduced the little guy to the Inquisitor, and there was no need to pretend to be happy to see him. He’d been feeling off about this mission, sure—lots of reasons. Lots of things that worried him. He told the boss he was used to the Qun being far away, and that was true. He _didn’t_ tell Dorian that the Ben-Hassrath failing to respond about the flashback felt weird, like he was being shut out of something. He told Krem the mission was risky, and that was true, but Krem wasn’t worried and Bull probably shouldn’t be either. The timing was…well, never mind. It wasn’t like the Ben-Hassrath could schedule the secret operations of the Venatori. So there was no reason to feel like the timing was on purpose, like maybe they wanted a better look at the Inquisition. Like maybe they thought Bull wasn’t providing enough intel in his reports, or…

None of that dimmed how genuinely damn happy he was to see Gatt. He worried about that kid, from time to time. The last time Bull had seen him, he’d still been a little spitfire on Seheron. He needed time to grow up; Bull always wondered if the island would let him live long enough for that.

Now— _Shit, look at him_. Grown up and calm enough to work among the _bas._ More than that, he’d mastered a lot of the training in appearances. The kid Bull used to know would have taken one look at Evelyn’s staff—not even Evelyn herself—and pulled out a knife and started snarling, Vint or not. He was damn proud of the kid’s professional, easygoing demeanor now. Damn happy he was alive, too.

They headed out, trekking toward the Venatori camp. Cassandra took point, Varric followed. Gatt attempted to strike up a conversation with Solas, but that died out quickly. To brush over it—Evelyn hated it when her people fought, and Bull had wisely avoided the topic of the Qun with Solas since he learned how the elf felt about it—he threw a cheerful invitation at Gatt. “Hey, when we get this mess cleaned up, think you’ll have time to come see Skyhold? You should meet the rest of the Inquisition. I’ll buy the drinks.”

Gatt smiled. “I’ll depend on that.”

Funny though— _That wasn’t sincere._

“My advisors will probably want to discuss the alliance with you a bit,” Evelyn agreed. “But I won’t let them monopolize all your time. Bull can show you around, give you the Skyhold welcome.” She smiled, and that, of course, _was_ genuine.

“I look forward to it, Inquisitor.” Gatt glanced his way. “We will have much to discuss.”

_Weird._

Bull didn’t ask right away. They got into a little skirmish and he waited until Evelyn was checking around after. Then, quietly: “Something up, Gatt?”

Just as quietly, Gatt answered—in Qunlat. “ _Nothing to concern yourself. I will depend on you to relate to me all your observations of the bas organization and its people so far._ ”

Bull didn’t speak Qunlat often these days, but it wasn’t like it was possible to forget your first language. “ _Going to be sticking around a bit?_ ” It was the only reason he could think of that Gatt would want so many details.

Another calm glance. “ _And more, perhaps. When this alliance is secure, I may be assigned to Skyhold._ ”

“ _Guess two of us wouldn’t hurt._ ”

A quirk of an eyebrow. “ _Perhaps. Or…how would you like to go home for a while, Hissrad?_ ”

“Uh…” He blinked. “ _What?_ ”

“ _Par Vollen. The Ben-Hassrath think you’ve earned a little respite from these bas. They are considering recalling you for a while. I would be taking your place._ ”

“ _What…would I do in Par Vollen?_ ” Something in his gut twisted.

But Gatt shrugged. “ _That’s above my rank. Maybe teaching? Sharing what you’ve learned about the bas with our agents who will be assigned among them._ ”

_Okay_ , Bull thought. _That might be useful_.

And his gut twisted, and he thought, _So would digging ditches._

“ _I’d prefer to stay here. I like fighting._ ”

“ _I remember._ ” Gatt shrugged. “ _We will see._ ”

And Bull thought about the way his flashback had received no response—except this mission. And now this suggestion from Gatt, that he might be going to back Par Vollen. And it…didn’t sit right. Not that it was Bull’s place to say. He wasn’t in charge. But he knew how things usually worked, after all this time. The Ben-Hassrath didn’t just ignore something like this. There was a significant gap in Bull’s memory—or a significant new memory that had been inserted in his mind from some unknown, outside source. With all the _bas saarebas_ around, no _way_ the Ben-Hassrath would brush this off.

But they had. It wasn’t like Bull could even hope they were going to get back to him about it. If they were going to consult and make a decision at a later point, they would tell him so. If they determined it was nothing, they would say. But they hadn’t said _anything_.

And now this, and Gatt, and…were they _really_ going to bring him all the way back to Par Vollen, pulling a well-entrenched spy out of the most significant _bas_ organization in Thedas, just to teach some trainees a little more about blending in? The training was already pretty damn good; Bull remembered.

They reached the campsite, and Bull gladly threw himself into the fight. He was eager for something simple to focus on, to try to purge the unease from his gut. It was a good battle, no one got seriously hurt, and he could now see the Chargers down on the beach, lighting their signal—quick and professional. _That’s my boys._ Damn good job, he was proud of them.

And then it all went to shit.

Gatt wasn’t insincere _now_. He was begging and pleading, calling on their long history together, on _doing what’s right_. The greater good. Everything that made sense to him.

And Bull didn’t know where he was or what to think. He felt like he was hovering in a strange place. He could hear the voice in his mind that agreed with Gatt; he could almost say the words it spoke, too. They were there, they felt like a natural part of him. They felt like his own thoughts. _Save the dreadnought. Protect the alliance. A handful of bas do not weigh in the balance._

But then he raised the horn and blew, and for now, he really didn’t know why. He only knew he _had to_.

\--

A woman arrived in the morning—a terrifying giant of a woman, with a rather massive chest bound in a strip of linen crossed in front and back, and both horns broken at different lengths. Dorian was again demonstrating his good will by sitting in his horrible circle, and he could not understand anything that was said. It seemed Hissrad had to explain things to her, while also making arrangements with others and giving orders. The woman seemed to take it all rather poorly. She also seemed to have some measure of authority. She left Hissrad with what sounded unmistakably like a command—one he clearly protested, but to no avail.

He brought Dorian a meal and water at midday, and Dorian asked about the woman: “I thought you said you were in charge around here and no one could overrule you?”

Hissrad made an uncomfortable face. “I did, and it’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just a role thing. In her area, she can make the calls. She can make them for me, when she decides it’s necessary. But it won’t affect you. Just…something else I have to go take care of today.”

Another boring hour passed, and Dorian was surprised to see a young elven lad approach him. The boy stood in front of his circle and glared at him with pure fury.

_“What is your name, magister?”_

Dorian blinked, surprised to hear Tevene. _A former slave, most likely. Captured and converted, poor creature._ However, the kid was armed with daggers, and looked almost furious enough to use them, so Dorian was more wary than pitying. Still, he answered in kind. _“Dorian will do.”_

_“What is your house?”_

__He frowned. _“Why?”_

_“Answer or I’ll stab you, ugly magic-tainted monster!”_

Dorian blinked at that. “I think you are not allowed to stab me, child.”

The Qunari guard, who had never spoken a word to Dorian, apparently understood Common—or enough Common—but not Tevene, because he straightened at that and said something in Qunlat to the child. The boy grit his teeth and turned back to Dorian. 

_“Hissrad only calls you_ Kadan, _but I think you must be from House Cletos.”_

_“Well, you are wrong.”_

__This only seemed to anger the boy further. His voice cracked as he raised it. _“You are not_ Kadan! _I will not accept it, and when you betray Hissrad, I will kill you!”_

The lad stormed off, leaving Dorian somewhat bewildered.

\--

_I’m…Tal-Vashoth._

No matter how many times he thought it, said it—it didn’t feel real.

_I don’t want to be Tal-Vashoth. The Tal-Vashoth are rabid beasts. They need to be put down or they’ll hurt people. I can’t be that._

There was a very clear feeling of loathing in his mind for the whole idea, and every time he thought the word again, that corner growled at it, repulsed. That part of his mind also had the clearest suggestion of what to _do_.

_Turn yourself in. They’ll do what they always do with Tal-Vashoth_ —the voice, growling, anger, rejecting the word and everything it held— _captured in bas lands. They’ll take you home and reeducate you. You’ll be useful again, and safe._

Not a danger to others. That would be…for the best.

_Turn yourself in. What’s stopping you? Gatt is here; he’ll chain you up and take you back. He won’t let you hurt anyone. He knows your strength_.

But he journeyed back to Skyhold instead, following the Inquisitor like muscle memory controlled his movement, and Gatt met them there. And then Gatt left, and Bull didn’t surrender himself.

_I’m Tal-Vashoth_.

How many times would they put one man through reeducation? He’d never heard of it happening more than once. If once failed, it was _qamek._

_But these are special circumstances. If I turned myself in both times…_

Suddenly, his fingers tingled, heated up, and started stinging. His missing fingers.

_I…did turn myself in. I did. I remember._

The battle. Vasaad. The blood and bodies all around. The feeling that he couldn’t do this anymore. The others finding him, trying to get him to talk. And Bull choosing to do what was right.

The corner of his mind approved. _I did the right thing. I wanted them to fix me. I wouldn’t go Tal-Vashoth_ —anger, anger— _and hurt people. I wouldn’t be a savage._

His gut just…wouldn’t settle down. And Bull couldn’t stop rubbing at his itching, burning lost fingers. He wished this phantom pain crap would go away. He’d gone years without ever having to deal with it, so _why the shit_ it had to start happening lately…

_Since when?_

…Lately.

_How lately?_

He shook the thought off. It was some time after joining the Inquisition, not that such a detail mattered.

_I’m Tal-Vashoth,_ he thought, and he was so fucking scared.

\--

“I’ve managed to set up a neutral messenger the Vints will talk to. If they want proof, I may have to ask you for that birthright, to send to their camp so they know I really have a magister’s son to trade. I’m also cutting a deal with a Rivaini ship to make the kidnapping happen. And hopefully tomorrow you won’t need to sit in the cage all day, if that’s good with you.”

“Something other than hours of staring at the ground?” Dorian snorted. “Perish the thought.”

Hissrad chuckled. They were on a walkway high in the trees, finishing their food and watching the moons rise.

“A very irate young elf came to yell at me today.”

Without a moment of confusion, Hissrad nodded. “Probably Gatt. He’s like that, don’t worry about him.”

“He seemed utterly livid over you always referring to me as ‘ _kadan_ ’ or something like that. What does it mean?”

The shadowy figure had stilled. Between a little bit of moonlight and a little bit of torchlight, Dorian could make out his face, but not well. Still, he _sensed_ more than _saw_ that Hissrad was uncomfortable.

“It’s a nickname.”

“I gathered,” Dorian replied. Then he pressed, “And it means…?”

Hissrad cleared his throat. “Uh. ‘Center,’ technically.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow, not that it would been seen in the dim light. “Is that meant to refer to something specific? Because it seems an odd thing to call someone, otherwise.”

A slow nod. Then, setting aside his plate, Hissrad pointed to his own chest. “The center… _here_. Where the heart is. Either word works for a translation, I guess.”

Carefully, Dorian parsed that. “Are you saying the nickname means ‘my heart’?”

A shrug. “It probably sounds different to you than it does to us.”

Dorian felt…a little dizzy. “How so?”

Hissrad scratched at a horn and moved to stand by Dorian, more in the light than the shadows, more visible. “It’s not a pet name, like you might say ‘sweetheart’ to someone. Or…I guess you could use it that way if you really wanted to. But it’s mostly a title of respect, and great value. Trust.”

His heart skipped faster, and it was hard to force out a reply. “That’s…I suppose I can see why they were surprised. Given what I am. And…how long we’ve known each other.”

“Yeah.” Eyes searched his face. “It’s unusual. But out there, we had each other’s backs. That’s one thing. And I felt…responsible. I already was responsible for the human crew dying, when everything went to shit on the beach. I went after you to try to save _someone_ after that mistake. And then when I found out about why you were here…I had to get you out. That goal, and you, became my center. _Kadan_.”

Dorian truly had no idea what to say to that. The only responses he knew that seemed remotely suited to such a confession were tactile and intimate. But the moment felt…a little beyond something like that. And Hissrad was Qunari, after all. They didn’t… _do_ that, right?

At length, he managed a weak admission: “I find I may…not entirely wish to leave. To go back. To be…parted from you.”

“Have to.” Spoken softly. “I can’t keep a _bas saarebas_ around forever. There are regular shipments of new forces, usually with a higher-up from Par Vollen to check on progress. They’d take you back with them, and…you know.”

A long silence, because oh yes, Dorian did know. Then: “Have you ever considered…traveling to the Free Marches?”

There was another heavy silence. Then, Hissrad’s hand on his arm, pulling him to face the Qunari. Dorian looked up at Hissrad, who was looking down. “I’m needed here.”

Dorian swallowed. “Are you?” He didn’t know if he was challenging or begging. “Would they not replace you…if you were lost?”

_Hesitation_. He saw it in Hissrad’s eyes, and saw struggle there too. He opened his mouth, still looking unsure—not ready. Dorian raised a hand and placed it against the center of his chest. Hissrad went still. After a moment, Dorian stepped back and returned to his hammock.

_Don’t try to answer. Not tonight._

\--

Despite everything, Bull acted like normal. He had no reason to—no role. No assignment to blend in and spy. But people expected The Iron Bull to drink and fight, so he did.

The Inquisitor worried about him, cared deeply…even if she didn’t understand. Cullen personally apologized after the assassination attempt, considering it his own failure, but it wasn’t. Red didn’t apologize, exactly, but she mentioned, in passing, that she was scrutinizing the staff of Skyhold with extra diligence and no further intrusions would get past her. It was sweet.

A couple of people he’d bedded before came around, with much more of an eye to _his_ comfort than their own this time, and that was pretty damn nice of them too. He didn’t go for it, though. Not that he didn’t want to. He asked them to give him a couple weeks and hoped that somehow, by then, he’d feel safer around these little human creatures. He’d shake this tension he felt every time he picked something up and watched his hands engulf the everyday human-sized utensils. Every time he looked _down_ on the top of someone’s head.

So he drank in the tavern, but not heavily, and he trained with Krem and the Chargers. That was pretty good—he was unconsciously holding back at first, scared to crush his boys, but then Krem knocked him on his ass a few times and proved that the delicacy wasn’t appreciated. That was sweet, and helpful.

He still didn’t feel right, though.

Part of his mind kept screaming for him to turn himself in. Shit, even if the Ben-Hassrath pulled every agent he knew south of the Nocen Sea, he could find his own damn way back to Qunandar. Just head north, one foot in front of the other. It wasn’t that hard.

Digging ditches wouldn’t be that bad. Especially not after _qamek_. He wouldn’t notice what he was doing, so he wouldn’t mind at all.

But…he could still fucking _fight_ , damn it! And the Inquisition ran into people every day who needed help and protection and a fighter could _do_ that.

But they were _bas_. They weren’t supposed to matter.

… _Yeah, and I’m Tal-Vashoth_ —that seething, sick feeling again— _and I’m going to go savage and hurt them instead…without the Qun._

So he sat in the tavern and laughed and drank and thought, _Please, please somebody fucking tell me what to do._

The Inquisitor had run off to the Western Approach to see if she could still catch Hawke and Stroud, and unfortunately in her rush she hadn’t thought to bring Bull, so he’d spent a meaningless day pulverizing training dummies, giving up in frustration at how useless it was, and then wandering around trying to find someone who needed him to do something _useful_. 

That was the evening Dorian showed up in the tavern.

Bull knew something was up by the way Dorian took an ale from Cabot without first examining his wine collection and declaring nothing in it fit for consumption. He was right, too—Dorian came over, and bowed slightly, perfectly poised. “Is this seat available?” he asked, indicating the one beside Bull.

He quirked his remaining eyebrow at the guy. “Yeah, but there’s a qunari right next to it. The smell might bother your dainty nose, magister.”

Dorian’s face was his usual polite mask, but his eyes betrayed just a hint of…sadness? Then, quietly, he answered as he turned and gracefully sat: “I’m not of a mind to play that game tonight, Bull.”

_Well. Shit. Okay._ Trust Dorian to do the fucking unexpected. “All right…what are you up for, then?”

“Conversation,” he said simply, and took a drink. His eyes, since he sat down, were directed outward to the tavern, but his voice remained quiet—only for Bull.

Normally he’d have prodded—something about being a dumb brute. But Dorian had already put down that type of banter. So Bull just shrugged. “What do you want to talk about?”

He got a brief glance for that. Then: “Krem.”

“Krem?” Bull looked over at his lieutenant. “What about him?”

Dorian also looked over at the gathered Chargers. “He’d be dead if he hadn’t met you, wouldn’t he?”

Bull had no idea where this was going. But he was trained—if someone wanted to talk, you let them. Follow the fennec trail. They’d reveal what was in their head eventually. So, neutrally: “Yeah, probably. Why?”

“What do you suppose would happen to him now, if you were out of the picture? Say, killed in the next battle?”

That was easy. “He’d take over the Chargers, probably. He’s second.”

“You think he’s ready for that?”

That gave Bull a moment of pause. Krem was a very capable second, and an excellent balance to Bull’s leadership—in personality, in temperament, and in the way he strategized. But… “He’s been taking over short missions for the Inquisition. That’s step one—leading without me there. But there’s more to it than that.” Mostly just time, and practice, and a chance to transition from _one of the boys_ to _the boss_. “Still. Don’t know that anyone is ever really ready to take a big step like that. You just deal with it as it comes.”

Dorian tipped his head slightly. “Then we’re agreed that he’d have some success, and some struggles. But I think you’ve neglected to take into account what you mean to him personally.”

_Oh_.

And he couldn’t pretend that was bullshit. Krem acted very self-sufficient, but Bull had been trained to read people. It wasn’t that Krem relied on him, _needed_ him in the way most people would mean it. But he didn’t have many people around him who understood—real friends. And he’d probably never outgrow that—everyone needed to be understood. Until he had a couple more people in his life who were close, and valued, and _knew_ him…

“Yeah…good point.”

“He needs you.”

Bull shrugged. “I guess.”

And then Dorian leaned over, and touched one fingertip to a spot on his shoulder. Then, he drew a line along Bull’s skin to the center of his chest, where he flattened his palm over Bull’s heart, just for a moment, then sat back again.

Bull was opening his mouth to ask what _that_ was about when Dorian said, “What about Dalish? What would happen to her, if you were gone?”

He wanted to say _nothing, she stays with the Chargers_ , but he thought twice about it. “Depends on what happens with the Chantry and the new Divine, I guess. If they put the Circles back, with Templars, they’ll probably catch her eventually. Lock her up somewhere.” It had almost happened before. If Bull hadn’t had an arsenal of spy skills, he wouldn’t have seen it coming and got the Chargers out of town in time. Krem would never ditch her, but he was no Ben-Hassrath.

“Hopefully a lenient Circle, where they wouldn’t make her Tranquil.”

Bull didn’t let himself even picture Dalish’s clever eyes dim and vacant like the Tranquil. “Bad enough to lock her up at all,” he grunted. “She hates being indoors for long.”

“Hmm.” Then, Dorian leaned over. Touched another spot—other shoulder—and drew a line, as before, and placed his hand there, over Bull’s heart, as before.

“What are you doing?”

“What about Skinner?”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s not even a question. Arrested. Which she wouldn’t put up with. So—killed while resisting arrest.”

Silently, Dorian drew another line on his chest. Touched over his heart again.

Then he asked about Grim. And Stiches, and Rocky. He asked about each Charger in turn, and none of the answers were good, and each time he drew a line across Bull’s chest to his heart.

Finally, without a word of explanation, Dorian finished his drink and rose. “Sleep well, Iron Bull.”

“Hey, wait!” He sat up straighter, ready to rise and follow, but Dorian stopped and looked back. “What was all that about?”

Dorian’s expression was a mystery. “It seemed to me that you were uncertain where your center was, or how to find it.”

And that was it. He turned and left.

Bull sat in silence for a minute. Then, in a hurry, he got up and followed Dorian outside.

The mountain air was chilly; the stars, very clear and bright. Two moon-slivers of varying sizes. “Hey, Dorian!”

He was halfway across the courtyard, but he stopped, turned back, and waited as Bull approached him. Bull reached him and stopped too. They regarded each other for a moment.

Finally: “You going to tell me how you knew, or are you still sticking with riddles?”

After a brief pause: “In this case, the two answers are one, wouldn’t you say?”

Bull’s teeth ground together. “Riddles. Great. Thanks.”

Dorian’s smile was wan. “There is only one riddle, and it is the answer to your question of how I know. It is always the same answer—that is what I meant.”

With a heavy exhalation, Bull grunted, “You know, now I’m not a spy anymore, I don’t mind telling you that I’d love to punch your pretty face.”

With a hollow laugh: “Now that you’re not a spy anymore, I’ll take the _pretty face_ part as an honest compliment.”

“All my compliments were honest,” Bull defended himself.

“But not designed for honest ends,” Dorian shot back.

“Okay fine,” he sighed. “Sometimes I was trying to crack you. But I wasn’t making shit up to do it.”

Quietly: “I know.” Bull blinked in surprise. Then, even more surprising: “What do you want, Iron Bull?”

_I’m Tal-Vashoth_. And the Qun wasn’t going to take care of him anymore. They’d sent two shitty assassins as their last regards.

“Answers.”

Dorian studied him with narrow eyes. “You made it clear from the outset that you didn’t believe a word I said. So why should I say anything?”

Bull didn’t really have an answer for that, without mentioning the flashback, which he didn’t think he was ready to do. So it didn’t look like Dorian was working some kind of plot anymore—and Bull wasn’t a Ben-Hassrath agent, so if he’d ever been a target, maybe that had changed too. All that was fine, but it didn’t mean he was ready to believe just _anything_. Particularly when Dorian hadn’t told him much that was specific. So.

“Because I’m asking,” he said, and, “Humor me.”

For a long moment, Dorian’s silvery moonlit gaze was fixed on him. Then, suddenly, he turned. “Come along then.”


	10. Chapter 10

On a bright, warm morning, Dorian was sitting in his lofty hut in the trees, enjoying an extraordinary measure of freedom, all things considered. Which meant that he was no longer made to sit in the magebane circle, nor was he bound in the _saarebas_ way; he was only encouraged to remain out of sight, in something like house arrest.

He was polishing and cleaning his staff. His outer garments were hanging up to dry in the breeze—he was a poor hand at laundry, but he’d been able to rinse his clothes out somewhat in a stream, so at least he felt a little less filthy. He’d also apparently earned the freedom to handle a blade long enough to shave, which was an unparalleled relief. They did watch him every minute and demand the razor right back after, but he felt he was looking a little more human, a little less like a wild woodsman.

He noticed the silence only moments before the shouts.

Jumping up, he ran to the railing and looked down—upon a sea of grey. _Fog._ Shouts of Qunlat from all around.

Magic was at his fingertips, but he hesitated. He’d tried fire on this stuff before, and though Hissrad had thick skin, he was still burned by it. And the fog wasn’t…exactly fog. There was moisture involved, and some of it had cleared, but it had returned quickly and not burned away with the fire. It seemed to be sort of…half fog, half smoke.

Dorian had an idea. He had another spell—or the theory of one. He’d cast it only in a magical salon, as more of a parlor trick and a novelty. It was a wide-area spell, but perhaps not wide enough…

Stretching out the lines of power and drawing on the Fade with all his might, Dorian cast the circle as wide as he could, trying to cover the entire base below. Then he summoned the blizzard.

Cold whirled in a huge spiral of wind, ice flakes gathering and forming in the damp air. The dust of the smoke and the damp of the fog only aided the formation of snow, blowing and blowing and quickly taking all the fog out of the air and settling it in a heavy layer of white on the ground. There was a lingering mistiness, and some of the snow flying in the wind still obstructed things a bit, but compared to the dense, impenetrable grey, it was practically clear in a matter of moments.

He could see the fog warriors, now, and the Qunari were shouting and fighting back. They all looked indistinguishable from way up here, but Dorian identified some strange markings and clothing he was certain were not Qunari, and he sent fire and lightning down on them. Then he saw Hissrad.

Engaged with an enemy, and seconds away from a knife in the back.

In a flash, Dorian cast a barrier on him, and the knife glanced off leaving a long red slash instead of skewering a kidney. Hissrad turned and was on him in a second.

And the next second, Dorian saw the archer.

_Again, damn it._

But this time, the archer was on the edge of the clearing, and no one was near enough to stop him. Dorian spun, throwing himself toward the cabin, and pain lanced through his arm.

He looked down, once he was hidden. _Arrow in my arm, lovely._

Then everything went quiet and distant and hazy, and then dark.

\--

Bull was pointed to the only chair in Dorian’s room as the mage flicked a finger toward the fire and set it blazing. It was unnerving—the chair he was just sitting down in was right by the fire, and he knew there was nothing special about the hearth that made it possible for Dorian to start a fire there. He could incinerate Bull by failing to pay attention with his aim. That was kind of scary.

And then Dorian began trying to make tea—a very domestic process somewhat hampered by his inability to find the kettle, the tea, and then the cups, each in turn. Behind books, under papers, and hidden by a shirt—Dorian apparently didn’t make tea in his own room very often.

It was gratifying, at least, to see that he still had the tea and the spare cup Bull had filched for him weeks ago.

Dorian handed him tea, sat on the foot of his bed, and unceremoniously began, “We met under…unusual circumstances. I was fleeing my family, and hadn’t intended to end up on Seheron. You were…” He sighed. “It’s complicated. We were alone in enemy territory, and you convinced me to travel with you back to the Qunari camp. You wanted to arrange a prisoner exchange with the Tevinter soldiers, who had some of your men. We traveled together, fought for our lives together, made it back to your camp, and eventually all happened more or less as you had promised.”

Bull just held his tea, blinking a few times. “I brought a _bas saarebas_ back to—?”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian interrupted. “It was my own doubt as well, at one point, and you may trust that the Qunari did not like your decision at all. It certainly was not without…repercussions.” Bull wanted to ask what that meant, but Dorian moved on quickly. “All that would be too complicated to explain, and would not probably be of much use right now. The important detail I wanted to offer you was the time we spent together. Not that it was entirely amicable—far from it. But for two days, at least, we were forced to rely upon each other to survive. And,” his eyes dropped to his tea, “sometimes, for lack of anything better to do, we talked.”

_Hmm._ “Just talk?”

Dorian glanced back up, and his gaze was level. “One thing at a time.”

_Interesting._ So maybe there had been more, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, whatever else had happened between them, _that_ part didn’t make Dorian avert his eyes now. Yet he couldn’t hold Bull’s gaze when he admitted to _conversation_.

That was where the vulnerability lay, then. Not that Bull was digging it out to exploit it; he just couldn’t help analyzing all the details available.

Dorian continued: “We encountered Tal-Vashoth in the jungle, which led to some discussion of them. You told me some things about the Tal-Vashoth, and about the meaning of the Qun to you and your people.” He rubbed a thumb along the rim of the cup. “You’ve also discussed such subjects with Evelyn, and I confess that I asked her to relate what you told her. Your…views of the Qun and the Tal-Vashoth are a bit different, now, from what they were on Seheron.”

“How so?”

“You’ve become…more traditional. More black and white. On Seheron, you still followed the Qun, but you told me very clearly that there was a difference between the way the Qun operated in Par Vollen and on Seheron. The lines were…blurred. Those lines are, I think, much clearer to you now, judging by what you’ve told Evelyn.”

“Okay,” Bull carefully admitted, “that sounds like a problem the reeducators would want to correct.”

Dorian’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “As it seems to be working for you, I’ve made no attempt to argue. But now you _are_ Tal-Vashoth—” And the strong feeling of revulsion rose up in him just as quickly when someone _else_ said it… “—and you seem convinced you are destined for savagery without the Qun.”

“And you know better?” Bull questioned, keeping his tone neutral. Refusing to growl. “Were the Tal-Vashoth some kind of persecuted rebel faction on Seheron, sane and polite and civilized?”

A steady look. “No. They were savage. But it was not as simple a matter as you now think.”

This was getting harder and harder to believe. But, if Dorian was talking—keep him talking. Process it all later. “So what am I wrong about?”

Dorian’s grey eyes were penetrating. “You told Evelyn that the Qun keeps the inherent savagery of qunari in check. That without it, you’d all be as mad as the Tal-Vashoth on Seheron. You told _me_ , at the time, that the Tal-Vashoth were a unique problem. Mostly warriors— _sten_ , I believe you called them. Men bred for fighting, who lived their whole lives in a very structured, orderly way. But Seheron was chaos. The Ben-Hassrath understood how much a soldier could take. They routinely reassigned anyone who didn’t die fighting after two years. But some, for whatever reason, mentally snapped before their reassignment. That was what made the Tal-Vashoth on Seheron so savage. They were the very best fighters, and they had lost their minds.”

Whatever response Bull had been planning, it died away. Dorian…had a pretty good understanding of what _sten_ were like. Bull didn’t remember the direct connection he spoke of, but it made sense. _Sten_ were the most order-driven Qunari of all. And…the madness of the Tal-Vashoth certainly was a kind of…directionless violence. It _fit._

“You told me how the Qun gives Qunari a purpose, a center, and _that_ was the vital point when it came to keeping your sanity. But you had long ago found your own purpose on Seheron. You served the Qun, but it was not your center anymore. Saving lives, protecting the innocent—that was your purpose. It kept you sane, carried you through many years of service. You didn’t say so,” Dorian smiled thinly, “but I thought your adaptability was what had helped you endure so long, under such pressures.” Then, his smile faded. “Now…you seem to fear madness as an inevitability. It isn’t. You can find another center for yourself. You did so before. You can do it again.”

The corner of Bull’s mind that hated every mention of the Tal-Vashoth could not accept this—but that corner was at odds with his training, which was still insisting he get as much out of Dorian as he could. “And you think the Chargers should be my new purpose.”

Dorian sat back, slowly. His expression, which had opened up before now, in a gentle way, slowly folded back into placid nothingness. _Crap_. Maybe Bull had been careless with his tone, let himself sound disbelieving. “I think,” Dorian calmly answered, “that they already _are_.” He sipped his tea, and Bull could sense that he wasn’t going to get much else.

Still, he had to try. “What about you?”

Over the rim of his teacup: “What indeed. I don’t see what I have to do with it.”

“You don’t think you could be important to me like that too?”

Dorian’s calm expression grew tight for a moment. Then he stood, smiling—without his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I _know_ I’m not important to you. And I would appreciate it if you would refrain from dangling that particular carrot.” With that, he crossed to his door, opened it, and stood, holding it ajar. “Good night.”

_Shit. Wrong move._ Bull sighed and set his cup down. He paused before passing through the door. “Sorry.”

Dorian’s smile was so pretty…and so empty. “Think nothing of it. You’re only proceeding as you’ve been trained to, I understand.”

But Bull frowned and lingered another moment. “Yeah…but I shouldn’t do that anymore. And either way…I hurt you, and I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

Without the slightest movement, Dorian’s bearing suddenly became very…tired. Exhausted, even. His eyes showed it the most—maybe it all came from there. “I suppose it isn’t the most gallant way to repay my efforts to help you.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed.

“Even so,” Dorian glanced up at him, then away into the night, “I prefer the attempts at manipulation to…this.”

“What? Me apologizing for it?”

A slow headshake. “Your kindness. The way you care, the way you regret causing me pain. I find it considerably more painful to have _that_ directed my way.”

Bull parsed this. “That’s…confusing.”

“I’m sure it is.” Dorian tipped his head toward the door slightly. “Perhaps we should call it a night?”

Nodding, Bull left with a final “Good night,” and the door shut behind him—deliberately. Not too quick. Bull stood a moment, then turned to take the battlements back to his room. He had a lot to sort through tonight.

\--

Dorian woke with a scream of pain.

The reason was right in front of his eyes, the moment he could focus—two broken halves of an arrow shaft, covered in his blood. Hissrad was tossing them away and applying pressure to his arm, which also hurt incredibly, but Dorian now had the presence of mind to realize this pain was necessary. He grit his teeth and breathed through it.

Wrapping his arm with medicine, Hissrad said quietly, “I’ll turn a blind eye if you want to heal yourself.”

Through his teeth, Dorian admitted, “I can’t heal for shit.”

Hissrad sighed. “I figured. Shouldn’t have taken an arrow, then.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

A tense smile. “Thank _you_. You saved my life. Again.”

“Your turn now,” Dorian answered in a strained voice, trying to smile through the pain. Hissrad smiled at him in return, and his eyes—again. Dorian’s stomach knotted, and he…tried to put it aside.

When his arm was wrapped and treated, the woman appeared in the entryway. She studied them both for a minute, then said something to Hissrad. He didn’t look at her as he answered. She gave what sounded like another short command. Then he _did_ turn to her, voice rising in anger as he gestured to Dorian. Her answer was just as abrupt. She left. Hissrad growled in her absence.

“You two don’t get along,” Dorian observed carefully.

A sigh. “Yeah. I hate that woman.” He stood. “Look, rest here okay? You can’t climb down with that arm anyway. I’ll bring food later. Got to go do something first.”

“Clean up after the battle?” Dorian ventured.

A small smile, then. “We’ve already pretty much finished with that, thanks to you. Things could have been a lot worse.”

“I’ll accept a nap and food, but true gratitude would be best expressed with something alcoholic.”

A grin. “I’ll see what I can do.”

\--

“You want me to lay siege to Adamant Fortress in _how many days?_ ”

Bull was sitting in Josephine’s office, waiting for the War Room meeting to break up, when he heard Cullen’s shout loud and clear from down the hall. The Inquisitor had returned in a rush just today, and Bull was here to turn in a report on the Chargers’ success in Orlais. The outburst was followed by nothing—nothing he could hear from Josephine’s office, at least—and eventually the advisors and the Inquisitor reappeared. Cullen was marching fast enough to nearly be a run, Josephine and Red were carrying a lot of paperwork, and Evelyn’s eyes and nose looked a little red-rimmed.

“It’s my fault, I’m so sorry…” she was mumbling to Red. Cullen was already gone. “I should have followed up with all this long ago, and now we barely have time to—”

“Your worship,” Josephine interrupted gently, “we certainly to _not_ have time for self-recrimination.”

“What’s done is done,” Leliana added. “And we still have time to act, if we hurry. Let us not forget this much.”

She sniffled. “Yes. I’ll…be in the Undercroft, preparing.”

As she passed Bull, he smiled broadly at her. “Time to kick the shit out of some demons, boss?”

A little watery, she managed to smile. “A whole fortress of them. You’ll join me, won’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it!”

That seemed to have the desired effect, and the Inquisitor left looking a little cheered. 

Bull turned to Josephine. “So, how many days?”

Red was already nodding to him and swiftly vanishing, as Josephine quickly began setting things out on her desk. “If possible, we should leave the day after tomorrow.”

Bull blinked. “I’ll get the Chargers together and see what we can do to help Cullen mobilize.”

“Thank you, that would be helpful.”

On his way out of the great hall, he passed Dorian in conversation with Varric.

“Hey, Tiny! You know what bit Curly in the ass? He passed a couple minutes ago like he was out for blood.”

With a sigh, he stopped to explain the apparent tiff in the War Room. It would be all over Skyhold before nightfall anyway, and the Inquisitor’s inner circle should know first, and without the embellishments of rumor. These few were the people who stood a chance of actually being able to help her out.

“Well. Shit.”

Dorian shook his head in agreement with Varric. “And they were finally making progress.”

“We’ve got bigger shit to worry about now,” Bull added, then explained the rush to get to Adamant before the Grey Wardens could summon a demon army.

“Well. Shit.”

Shooting Varric a Look: “Quite.”

Bull interjected, making peace, “Let’s all just do what we can to help out for now. Once we get the march started, we’ll have a couple days moving with the army. Maybe then we can get the lovebirds to patch things up.”

“Clever you,” Dorian mildly commented, “mastering the pace of the human heart so well. You know, Varric, you might write better romances if you consulted the Bull. At the very least, he would probably not make the results _more_ insipid and overblown.”

“Ouch,” Varric chuckled, then shrugged. “But, fair enough. I’ll stick to adventure serials and biographies of colorful and heroic characters.”

“Watch yourself, Vint,” Bull suggested. “If you get too important, you might qualify.”

Dorian sighed. “You are both terrible. Well, let’s get busy. While the Commander cools off, I think the Inquisitor could use some company. I’d better get to the Undercroft and see about a new staff blade.”

“Bianca’s aiming could use a tune-up,” Varric agreed, and they both headed in that direction, while Bull took the opposite way to rally the Chargers.

\--

Hissrad brought a small flask of Antivan brandy with dinner. Dorian decided it would be wisest not to ask how he came upon it, and just enjoy the drink. They shared it, looking down on the moonlit base. There were scars of the day’s battle on the ground, but the bodies had been cleared away. Dorian’s arm had been throbbing, but the brandy dulled that quickly to almost nothing.

In a conversational lull, Dorian asked, “So, who is that woman you don’t get along with?”

A grunt. “Riha. She’s a tamassran. One of the only ones we have around here. She has to work four base camps.”

“What did she want today?”

“ _She_ didn’t want anything. I needed sex, according to her, and it’s her job to know. So.” A shrug. Shoulders tense.

“Sex?” Dorian did not pretend to be anything other than shocked. “That’s what that was about? She made you…wait.” Dorian’s eyes widened. “You were gone for _four hours!_ ”

“I don’t get to say when it’s done. She does. It’s her job.”

A little stunned, Dorian examined this. “You have to have sex with her whenever she tells you to?” He studied Hissrad. “You don’t seem at all pleased when she gives you an order. You seem to argue with her about it.”

He shifted, moonlight changing patterns over his face. “It’s usually an interruption. Also, I don’t agree with her about it much. Back in Par Vollen, you go to a tamassran regularly, when you get the itch. Here, I’m busy. She’s busy too; she’s got way too many people to take care of. I’d rather let her do her job for them. But she says I’m the leader and I need to keep my head clear, and she’s right about that.” He shrugged, frowning. “We still don’t get along. But that’s not really important.”

Dorian tried to wrap his mind around that. To have such a cold attitude about sex… Disinterest was one thing; for carnal pleasure alone was all right. But to be ordered to do it, like being ordered to attend to some chore…and to be forced to bed someone one thoroughly disliked…!

An echo of a thought hit him—a vision of the future his family had planned for him. A vision he always tried not to see, but one that he still saw in nightmares, when Despair came calling for him.

It was too similar.

But Hissrad accepted this, and Dorian never could.

“Do you never…seek someone else?” He tried to keep the question academic. Study of the Qunari, and so on. He _tried_. “Have you never had sex with someone who wasn’t a tamassran?”

Very slowly—reluctantly—Hissrad answered. “Not…really. We don’t _do_ that. It’s…it feels wrong. Sometimes when Riha is away for a long time, someone sort of…takes a temporary role change. I approve it, and it’s acceptable. Sometimes people have to take on a different role to fill a need. With other jobs, too. But they aren’t really trained as a tamassran, so they don’t try to tell me what I need. And I know eventually they’re going to go back to being under my command, so I leave them alone. I just take care of myself. Sometimes…I’m not alone when I do that. Sometimes someone else is taking care of themselves too. It’s not sex, but it probably wouldn’t be okay in Par Vollen. But this isn’t Par Vollen.”

Maker, had there really been a time when Dorian had paid as much heed to this man in his loincloth as to a dog’s nudity? The valleys between his muscles were shadow, highlighted by the bright moonlight on his skin. He was…so _large_ , in every way.

Almost trancelike, he heard himself ask, “Is that why you need it for several hours, when Riha is here? Long abstinence?”

Hissrad snorted. “ _No_. Usually it’s quick. Another thing we’ve been arguing about. I don’t know what’s got into her head, this visit. But four hours around her was exhausting, I can say that for sure.” He sighed. “Still. It’s her job. She doesn’t like me any more than I like her, so I’m sure she wouldn’t make me stick around if it wasn’t something I needed.”

Dorian’s gaze lingered. “Well, you must feel better…after four hours with her, today. Yes?”

A growl-like grunt. “I feel exactly like I did before. Going to need to have a talk with her about this. Or a fight.”

“It couldn’t be that you’re…” Dorian hesitated. Hissrad raised his eyebrows. “…Like me?”

Hissrad blinked, but then shook his head. “Nah, women are fine. Riha’s the first tamassran I had a problem with, and even then it still works. Mechanically speaking.”

Dorian hummed, keeping his gaze away from Hissrad’s body. “I’ve had sex with men I didn’t care about in the slightest, but never with someone I disliked. I don’t think I could. The idea is…unpleasant. And sex is meant to be enjoyable.”

“Sure,” Hissrad answered, neutral.

Despite the cool breeze, the air felt so…thick, so heavy. So hard to breathe… “I suppose you’ve never felt any particular…desire. For someone specific.”

He didn’t look at Hissrad’s face, but he _felt_ the man’s gaze upon him. “No.” A pause. “I guess not.”

“How very Qunari of you.” Dorian smiled blandly and finally met the man’s eyes. It was…hard to ignore the fact that even from a few paces away, he had to look up to do so. “Even here, on Seheron, still Qunari. You are what you are, I suppose.”

A careful look. “Are you not? _Vint_.”

“Fair enough.” Dorian glanced down at his hands, twisted a ring on his finger. Caught the shortened fingers on Hissrad’s hand with the edge of his vision. “I’m not quite what I would be back home. Neither are you, by your own account. But I suppose we still can’t meet in the middle, can we?”

Hissrad was studying him. He drew breath to answer, but Dorian spoke first. “Rest well.” Then he turned and headed for his hammock without waiting for an answer.

_You always did play the coward in the face of your own desires, Dorian Pavus._

\--

The first day of travel toward Adamant was too busy, but the second fell into something of a rhythm. They were marching fast, before dawn and well after dark, and when they stopped the army for the night it was only for a few hours of sleep. No proper camp, especially once they entered the Western Approach and the nights were dry. Fires were built, a few tents pitched, but most of the army slept under the stars.

The Inquisitor’s advisors and companions had the option of tents, but most declined. The scouts were overworked enough as it was just getting everyone fed. Madam de Fer had a tent set up and her usual bath. Everyone else was gathered around a campfire for dinner before unrolling their beds under the stars.

Evelyn was called away to answer a message brought by raven, and Iron Bull watched Dorian approach the Commander and say something with a slight bow, indicating the opposite direction. Firelight caught Varric’s eyes as he watched the two depart. Bull raised a questioning eyebrow. “Just a little chat,” Varric said, under his breath. “Probably something about it not being very chivalrous to make a lady cry.”

Madam de Fer retired, and Cole vanished to go do his thing, but the rest of the companions lingered around the fire, pretending they weren’t waiting to see what happened.

Bull had just spotted Evelyn returning—still a ways off, nearer to another fire that had been used to cook and then abandoned by the soldiers, left to crumble to embers—when Dorian reappeared from the shadows. A moment later, Cullen approached Evelyn and stopped her by the other fire. He held his fist to his mouth like he was clearing his throat. His footing shifted uncomfortably, but at this distance Bull couldn’t hear what was said. Everyone had gone quiet and attentive, though.

Dorian was doing something with magic. “What is that spell?” Solas asked, curious.

“A rather ingenious and vitally important Tevinter invention,” he murmured, eyes on the distant pair. “A listening spell.”

All attention was immediately on Dorian, several of the group sneaking closer. Cole appeared out of nowhere. Cassandra leaned in. “Can you…hear what they are saying?”

“Shh!” Dorian concentrated. Then, quietly: “The Commander is apologizing.”

“Friggin right.”

“Shh!”

“Sorry.”

“I told him he ought to,” Dorian added quickly, then paused, silent. No one spoke. All watched the pair or glanced at Dorian with bated breath. “Evelyn is apologizing too, for the delay, et cetera.”

“Hardly her Ladyship’s fault,” Blackwall mumbled.

“Cullen agrees, now shut up,” Dorian answered in a rush. Another pause. Then: “She says, ‘You people really picked the wrong Inquisitor…’ Something-something… ‘Circle mage.’ Ah, she’s talking about her background.” Dorian quickly continued, “He says, ‘No, our decision was correct. We needed a leader, and you have proven yourself. I have the utmost confidence…’ Ugh, speak up Commander!”

Bull watched Dorian’s expression, the intensity of it, the light in his eyes. The passion of his focus, honest and not hidden. Despite himself, Bull smiled a little. Dorian so rarely showed the fire inside him. It was…something incredible to see.

“And now _she’s_ speaking too quietly, _kaffas_.”

Cole lifted his head from Dorian and his spell and stared with wide eyes at the distant couple. “ _Even though I am a mage? Surely, as a Templar, you must distrust me deeply._ ”

All eyes snapped to Cole. Then, the next moment, back to Dorian, nodding rapidly. “Good, yes, he says, ‘Of course not! You are much more than…’ Oh, he stopped. He’s clearing his throat.”

Sera, perhaps with the best vision aside from Solas, and especially in low light: “Rubbin his head. Aw, bumped himself with his gauntlet, right on the noggin.”

Cole, murmuring: “ _Whatever I fear of magic, I see none of that in you._ ”

Dorian, again. “She asks, ‘What _do_ you see?’ And he’s mentioning her good qualities—loyalty, leadership, care for the needy, willingness to face danger…”

Cole, with a sigh, “ _No, I don’t mean things like that…_ ”

“He asks, ‘What sort of things do you mean, then?’ And she’s…she says, ‘I don’t know, I just wondered if there was anything about me you really _liked_. I mean I like a great many things about _you_ , even though you’re a stubborn, tactless, overbearing—’ Oh dear, Evelyn…”

“Wot else, wot else? Don’t stop!”

“What else does she say?” Cassandra agreed, breathlessly, almost at the same moment.

“ _And you are easily distracted and poor at prioritizing and blind to the dangers of magic and tend to use somewhat questionable morals when solving the Inquisition’s problems—_ ” Cole shook his head. “He doesn’t mean it—I mean, he does, but he doesn’t! Not like this.”

“Well, shit, this isn’t going well,” Varric sighed.

“Shh!” Dorian focused. “He isn’t finished, he says…et cetera et cetera… ‘But you are still the bravest, kindest, loveliest woman I have ever known and I want—’ Oh, fine time to run out of words Commander! Ah, but she asks what he wants…I think. They’ve gone quiet again… _kaffas._ ” He and everyone else looked at Cole—except Bull, who watched Cullen step closer to Evelyn, shadows against the distant fire.

Cole didn’t speak. Solas spoke up instead—“Ah. Look.” Bull would have made the same suggestion, if Solas hadn’t.

Everyone looked.

Whatever details were lost in the darkness, it was still pretty easy to see that the two shadows against the firelight had merged into one. And there was just enough light glinting, and just enough armor to catch and reflect it, that even at this distance those without elven eyes could get a pretty clear picture of the Commander’s arms around Evelyn, pulling her close as they kissed.

Cassandra gasped. Sera snickered. The rest of them smiled, or perhaps grinned, and sent each other knowing looks. Except Cole, who continued to watch, unblinking, until he nodded, satisfied. “That helped.”

Dorian, with a smiling look around, released his spell. “I think they’ve earned a little privacy now, yes?”

Cassandra sighed. Varric planted his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, time to call it a night.”

The others agreed, one by one, and they all filtered away from the fire—except Cole, who vanished. Bull stayed. Dorian stayed too, and glanced at him when they were alone. “What a spy I would have made, yes?”

Bull hummed. “Don’t know about that.” Dorian’s expression was not quite so vivaciously alive now, but neither had he shut himself away entirely. He hovered there—subdued, but not masked. Not yet.

He arched an eyebrow. “Oh? What am I lacking, in your professional estimation? I’ve every talent for performance that you have, and I’ve a host of other magical tricks as well.”

Bull stared across at Dorian—no longer his opponent, but still a mystery. And now, whatever Bull planned to do about him had to come from his own decision—what he _wanted_ to do about Dorian. Did he want to beat him at his own game? Be his friend? Punch him? Fuck him? Drive him as crazy as he’d driven Bull?

Make him happy?

_Why make him happy?_

For the challenge? It _would_ be a challenge, probably. No one else was trying to do it. And sometimes, when Bull got a glimpse of what a happy Dorian might look like—like just now, spying on Evelyn—he thought it was a pretty good look on a pretty good-looking guy, so put two together and how could it be bad?

Then again.

Bull hadn’t done much with the details Dorian had added to his story about Seheron. He’d gone over them, found nothing he could absolutely refute with objective facts, and basically filed most of it for later. The Qun would have guided his response, once. Now it was gone, and all its direction gone too. The Chargers could possibly be his new center and purpose, but they hadn’t weighed in on Dorian—not in a final verdict kind of way.

If Dorian was lying, trying to control Bull in some way, and if that led to harm for the Chargers, then he was still an enemy.

If Dorian was telling the truth and Bull’s head was a mess and _that_ led to harm for the Chargers, then Bull was a danger, but Dorian wasn’t necessarily an ally.

If Dorian was lying and it didn’t affect the Chargers, or if it benefitted them in some way—that was probably okay, actually.

And if Dorian was telling the truth and _helping_ Bull and somehow, by extension, the Chargers—that made him more than an ally. A true friend. One perhaps undervalued until now.

“You care too much,” Bull said, finally. He said it gently, too, and watched the effect.

“Do I?” Dorian was smiling. “What blasphemy.” It wasn’t sincere, but it wasn’t the wall of his mask, either. It was the sort of gentle play-acting Dorian often used to interact with others at a comfortable arm’s length. That was encouraging, at least.

“Good spies just observe, gather intel, pass it on,” Bull explained. “Sooner or later, you wouldn’t be able to resist getting involved. Probably get yourself killed.”

Some emotion slipped into Dorian’s fire-lit eyes, into his low, soft voice. “Oh, that is rich, coming from you.”

Slightly confused, Bull stayed cheerful. “Hey, last I checked, I’m still alive.”

Slowly, Dorian stood, and slowly approached. “And all thanks to your enduring detachment from others.” That sounded sarcastic, but it was murmured so softly it was hard to tell.

“Eh. You know…”

But he stopped there. Dorian stood in front of him, and, with the lightest brush of his fingers, he touched the strap of Bull’s eyepatch. Bull swallowed. “Okay, point taken, but that wasn’t exactly spy work.”

“It wasn’t exactly dispassionate, either,” Dorian whispered. Then he moved his touch. Bent, and lifted Bull’s hand from his knee. It was the one with the missing fingers.

Bull watched as Dorian bowed, lifting his hand, and placed a feather-light kiss on the stumps. As Bull was sitting down on a low, crude bench by the fire, the act brought Dorian’s face pretty close.

A warm tingling in Bull’s fingers, and the warm grasp of his hand, and his pretty eyes, and a soft “Good night.”

The scent of him, of his hair especially, hit Bull and lingered with him, and suddenly he almost— _almost_ remembered something. It lingered there, like trying to look at a shadow on a dark night. More of a feeling than a thought. A sense memory. The scent of Dorian mingled with heat—the fire, right? Or just… _heat._ His fingers throbbed with sudden raw pain, and his mind supplied a thought: _“Not asleep, Vint. Just putting the pain aside.”_ It felt like his own thought. It felt like he should…have his arms around someone.

If he’d never been a Qunari, never learned and lived with discipline, the impulse would have been too strong. To grab Dorian from behind, pull him close, breathe in the scent of his hair, maybe…maybe pin him down, and…

But Dorian walked away from the fire unmolested, because Tal-Vashoth or not, Bull didn’t take action without considering and choosing, not even when, just for one heartbeat, it felt like he would die if he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Adamant and the Fade! O_o


	11. Chapter 11

The moons were rising, both of them full and bright. Both of them large and stained red. _Blood moons._

“Hey.” Hissrad pulled himself up from the ladder. The massive muscles in his arms bunched and flexed.

“Good evening,” Dorian politely replied.

“Ready to get out of here?”

Dorian watched as the giant strolled closer. “You could say that.”

“Good. I’ve got the exchange set up with the Vints, and the Rivaini captain’s paid and ready. The _Sea Spider_ will intercept the Vint ship on the way back to Tevinter after the exchange. We meet the Vints in neutral territory a few miles downstream. Tomorrow.”

“They agreed?”

A nod. “Yeah. They don’t give a shit about a dozen ‘ox-men.’ I’m lucky my guys are still alive. I figure the Vints thought they’d sell them as slaves, but I hear there are legal restrictions around having a Qunari slave within Tevinter, so it probably took them a while to set up. Lucky for us.”

Dorian smiled without mirth. “I’m worth a dozen men, am I?”

“Too cheap for an altus?”

“On the contrary,” he murmured. “I’ve lately been told I’m worth nothing at all, so it’s rather encouraging to have that materially contradicted.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected Hissrad to say to that…but Hissrad said nothing. He stepped close, raised a hand…and gently brushed the back of one finger down Dorian’s cheek. Unable to breathe, Dorian just stared into his eyes. With only the slightest move forward, he would…

But Hissrad turned and stood beside him, looking out over the camp. “I’m the one who’s worthless around here. All these years, and Seheron is still Seheron. I gave up trying to actually fix this place years ago. But I always tell myself to stay in my place, just to keep some other guy from having to do it, from getting killed by it. But…I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s time for a new guy. Someone a little more traditional.”

Dorian swallowed. “What…brought this on?”

“Heh.” Hissrad rubbed his lost fingers lightly. They’d healed quite a lot since that first meeting. “You, probably. Or just…the fact that I brought a _bas saarebas_ in here. I’m in charge and I make the call, and they accept that we’re getting our people back. But I think this was a little more than most of them could take. Especially those who haven’t been here as long. If I was going to spare your life, they figure I should have bound you like a proper _saarebas_ , put you under an _arvaarad_ , and sent you back to the Vints like that. Probably with an arrow in your back as soon as my guys were safe.”

“Well.” Dorian cleared his throat. “I must say, this makes tomorrow look like a rather intimidating prospect.”

“None of that’s going to happen.” Hissrad was firm. “It’s going to go the way I say it will, and you’ll be fine. I’m just saying, my people aren’t happy about it. They’re not going to trust me after this. Things fall apart when the soldiers don’t trust the commander. We need trust around here like we need to breathe. It’s all we’ve got. That’s why,” he shrugged, “I’m just thinking maybe it’s time for a replacement.”

“Then what will you do?”

Hissrad hesitated, and took a deep breath. “Normally, just get reassigned, like I should have been after two years. But. They’ll find out about you. Even if I don’t tell them, Riha will, or someone else. They won’t like that. Might decide to just wipe out my mind and send me to go dig ditches.” He held his arms out and looked at them briefly. “Muscles are still useful.”

_Useful? No…beautiful._ Dorian looked down to keep himself from staring. The blood moons were bright, and the light they cast was not quite so cold as the white moonlight usually was. “There’s always the Free Marches,” he commented, feigning disinterest.

Another sigh. “What would I do there?”

“I can’t say,” Dorian admitted. “I don’t know what _I’m_ going to do there, apart from probably get myself killed. Hopefully in a dramatic fashion.” He looked up to find Hissrad staring at him, eyes carefully neutral. “You could avenge me. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

“Hey, Vint?”

“Hmm?”

“Do me a favor?”

“Yes?”

Hissrad paused. Then: “Just say what you mean.”

Dorian’s stomach knotted. He felt like the words went right through him, to his very core. He released a shaky exhale. “All right.” He couldn’t hold the eye contact any longer. “I am…apparently shamefully easy. As my father has said more than once.” His voice dropped, even quieter. “I want you.” He swallowed. “I shouldn’t, but I do. I want…oh, I want all of you, and I can’t help it. I hardly care about anything else.”

Fingertips touched his arm—so soft, it could have been little more than the breeze. Then, Hissrad turned away. “Come with me,” he said, and vanished into the shadowy interior of the treetop cabin.

\-- __

__Laying siege to and bringing down a fortress was a big deal, no small task. Especially when that fortress was brimming with demons. Even so, the Inquisitor and her party had done a lot of fighting by now. Closed a lot of Rifts, which meant facing a _lot_ of demons. They managed to carve a path through the opposition at a pretty good pace. Warden warriors threw down their weapons at the first promise of safety. Warden _mages_ , not so much, but as scary as they were, Bull had someone scarier on his side.

Dorian Pavus was really cutting loose, a hard smirk on his lips, cold delight in his eyes. _Guess he doesn’t like this demon shit any more than I do._ It was both comforting and hot—an interesting combination.

And then all that good stuff was gone, and they were falling.

That part was okay. It took one glance to measure the distance to the ground, and Bull knew immediately, _I’ll pass out first, good. Painless. Three, two…_

Then everything was green light below him, and before the fear could even hit him, Bull was in it, surrounded.

There was no hit. Just a sickening lurch, and everyone trying to get their bearings. Even after they managed to all get onto the same plane and look around, the feeling of falling or being held upside down stuck around. Apparently that wasn’t going to go away. Not in the Fade.

_Fucking shit fuck_. They were _in_. The. Fade.

Dorian brought up demons right away, which Bull _really_ didn’t appreciate, and they started picking their way toward a Rift that might be their only hope of seeing a blue sky again.

Bull started reciting passages of the Qun in his head. He felt wrong about it—it wasn’t _his Qun_ anymore, whatever guidance it offered wasn’t _for him_ —but he didn’t know what else to _do_. _Everything here could possess him_. Everything that talked or even just _moved_ could get in his head and make him watch himself chop his friends to pieces. There were tremors in his muscles and he couldn’t make any of it _stop_. Even the most familiar passages of the Qun felt like they meant nothing—not here, not in this world of shapeshifting lands and floating rocks and a poisoned sky, where down felt like up and holding still felt like falling.

Evelyn talked to a…a spirit, or something. Maybe a demon. Was it trying to possess her? What if it did? Would Bull be able to see it happen, so he would _know?_

They fought…things, and then Evelyn went into a…something. Saw stuff. Bull saw it too, but distantly. Like a reflection.

He was shaking, worse and worse now. He knew his face was still blank, but he was shaking. He was trying to focus on the Qun but he couldn’t remember what came next, so he ended up just repeating the last line he’d recited, over and over.

“Bull?”

Dorian—looking up at him.

“What.”

_“The Qunari will make a lovely host for one of my minions. Or maybe I will ride his body myself.”_

__His…his teeth were barred, his body locked up, stiff. Probably growling.

Dorian frowned. Glanced at their companions, then stepped closer. Grabbed his arm—as best he could, anyway. Dorian’s hand couldn’t wrap around any part of Bull’s arm, _Little human hands_ , even though Dorian wasn’t a little human. The best he could do was squeeze.

But he could squeeze pretty good.

“ _It can’t_. It’s just bluffing, Bull. Nothing here can possess you unless you let it. Just don’t accept anything offered to you under any circumstances, and you’ll be fine.” He smiled tightly. “Well, that is overstating it perhaps. We are all in terrible danger. But rest assured, it is the sort of danger one confronts with a weapon, and you have an axe and are not half bad with it.”

Bull felt himself…unlocking. A bit. He managed a thin answer: “Great.” Rolled his shoulders and hefted his axe. “Let’s confront it, then.”

They did—or they tried to. But the fearlings they faced…

For just a second, at first, they were kind of like spiders to him. Then there was a whisper, and they had horns and faces, but they didn’t quite look like people. They became…shadows. Hard to know if his hits were landing, actually. The more of them he fought, the less they looked like…anything at all. Just dark shapes that weren’t even shapes. Just dark. Dark blankness that wanted to kill him.

And echoing sounds. More of them and more, the further they went. Whispers. Voices he didn’t know. And then…not voices, not sounds. Echoes of nothing at all. He was walking in the Fade, he could _hear_ the creepy, ambient sounds of the place, but he could also hear a silent, empty room. He could hear darkness and isolation. He kept staring at his companions, half wondering if they were really there. Half wondering who they _were_.

They killed more shapeless dark. Rounded more stones on a path that didn’t feel like it was really there. And then Bull saw something…ahead. In a clear area. Alone.

It was a Qunari.

Slowly, he approached. The Qunari was kneeling, naked, bowed forward. He looked half-wasted away, gaunt. None of that registered.

It was himself.

_He_ was the Qunari, and suddenly Bull was there—kneeling. Everything around him was dark and silent. A kindness. Nothing to see meant nothing he needed to focus on, and there was…stuff in his system that made _vision_ a tricky fucker. He didn’t _want_ to see anything. He was weak, empty, delirious, cold, but he wanted to stay frozen in this condition forever. Here, he was _safe_.

Then…a voice.

_“Hissrad.”_

Slowly, shakily, he lifted his head. He saw nothing and no one.

“Yes.” He wasn’t supposed to say anything else. He knew that…remembered, somehow. His answer was “yes.” _Always yes._

_“Hissrad. How did you leave Seheron?”_

__“One day…couldn’t think of a reason to keep doing my…job. Turned myself…in.”

_“You turned yourself in because…”_

“I wanted them to fix me.”

A shape, in the darkness. A face—he recognized that face. Bronze skin, curling horns. A relaxed smile.

_“That’s good, Kadan.”_

He was…he was…

_“Remember how we met?”_

“On the…beach. You arrived by boat.”

_“From Par Vollen. Reinforcements.”_

__“From Par Vollen. Reinforcements.”

_“That’s good, Kadan.”_

It was so hard to focus. His vision was blurry, the man before him swimming in and out of focus. Darkness all around.

_“Remember how we fought together?”_

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think. “We fought Tal-Vashoth.”

_“They were mad. Beasts.”_

“Mad…beasts. And fog warriors. And we went to the Vint camp…”

_“We fought the Vints.”_

“Fought the Vints.”

_“That’s good, Kadan.”_

He was wearing a reeducator’s armband.

“Then…” Bull was confused. Slow, muddled thoughts drifted in and out of his grasp. “Kadan was…gone…”

_“Killed in battle.”_

__“Killed in battle.”

_“Tell me again.”_

His head felt heavy. His chest hurt, like it was wrapped in iron. Maybe it was, actually. Restrict his air. “Everyone…dead all around. Everyone dead in the sand. And Kadan was gone. They…they came. They asked what I had done. And I…”

_“Turned yourself in.”_

“Turned myself in. To be fixed.”

_“That’s good, Kadan.”_

He could barely keep his eyes open. The bronze-skinned man smiled at him.

_“Who am I?”_

“Kadan.”

In the same tone, with no variance: _“Who am I?”_

__“Vasaad.”

_“What happened to me, Hissrad?”_

__“Kadan…gone.”

_“What happened to me, Hissrad?”_

__“Kadan. Dead.”

_“Who am I, Hissrad?”_

“Ka—Vasaad. Killed. I turned myself in.” He blinked, lifting his eyes, but he couldn’t focus. Only bronze skin before him. “I turned myself in, Kadan. Wanted them to fix me.”

_“Who is your Kadan?”_

“Vasaad is Kadan. Vasaad is dead.”

_“That’s good, Kadan. That’s right. We were very good friends.”_ Vasaad bent before him, smiling into his eyes. _“It hurts to lose your Kadan. You fought long for the Qun. You turned yourself in. Vasaad would be proud.”_

__“Vasaad would be proud.”

_“Vasaad wanted you to live, to fulfill your purpose. To serve the Qun.”_

__“I will serve the Qun. I want to serve the Qun. Kadan…”

_“Good, Hissrad. You are doing much better now.”_

But the shape was dissolving into darkness, the voice fading. Or was he coming clearer? A dark face before him, and echoes now—not of silence. Echoes of words, distant, then nearer. Then he felt a grip, a shake, and…

“Bull!”

With a jolt, he threw himself away from…

_Dorian_. It was…

“Oof!” Landed on his shiny ass. Sat back up. “Bull, are you all right? Are you back with us?”

_It was Dorian, it was Dorian._

“Kadan.”

Dorian blinked and went still. Stared at him. Bull looked down at his hands. “There was no Vasaad. There was only…” He looked up. Dorian’s face was chalky, lit with green. “ _Kadan_.”

Hand lifting to his mouth, Dorian breathed, “Andraste.” Then, hands shaking, he raised himself. Came close. Visibly swallowed, eyes wide and searching. “Bull, we…we have to get up and move on. We’re in danger. We’re in…the Fade. Can you…can you fight?”

Still disoriented, Bull nevertheless nodded. He could fight. He could always fight. He would always fight.

Evelyn was there, looking worried. Bull remembered her visions and wondered. “Did you…see it?”

Glances between the others. Dorian answered for them all: “We could see it, but you spoke only in Qunlat.”

So. They didn’t know. Even the armband wouldn’t have told them anything.

_Armband._

The face that his memory told him was Vasaad—wore a reeducator’s armband. The reeducator had…taken over as his Kadan, taught him to remember a Qunari. Suddenly, Bull remembered…

_“Kadan,”_ Dorian had said, drunk. _“The heart. The center.”_ He could _hear_ Dorian say it, but not with his ears. The words rang so clear in his mind, though, that he almost thought Dorian was speaking them now.

A few steps further on, he heard more: _“Ask, rather, why you might need to forget me in order to continue your work for the Ben-Hassrath.”_

_“He’s Ben-Hassrath through and through, now. There’s no room in his life anymore for what…for what we would have been.”_

__Further, and further, and with each step it was like clear words rang into his memory.

_“You’re still Hissrad. It’s simply accurate, now.”_

_“I understand. You don’t want me anymore.”_

_“We traveled together, fought for our lives together—we were forced to rely upon each other to survive.”_

_“They were savage. But it was not as simple a matter as you now think.”_

_“Your kindness. The way you care, the way you regret causing me pain. I find it considerably more painful to have that directed my way.”_

__He felt…mechanical. Nothing sank in anymore. The demons were just things to be dispatched. The Aspect of the Nightmare was just a thing that disappeared a lot, right when he was swinging at it. But Bull adjusted, relocated his target, and mechanically kept attacking. Even the giant spider didn’t sink in far. He faced it, prepared to swing his axe with the same mechanical precision until either the spider fell or he did. He was an empty hollow inside, no passages of the Qun to center himself on.

Only when a sudden flood of fearlings hid Dorian from his sight did he feel something—a spike of anger mixed with panic. _Then_ he fought with Reaver red in his eyes until everything was dead and Dorian was okay.

He stepped through the Rift onto ground that suddenly felt _too_ solid, like coming ashore after a long sea voyage. The battle was over. Dorian was at his side, alive—not calm, though. He was watching everything and everyone, but staying close to Bull. It was odd. It felt almost…protective, though he couldn’t pin down why.

Only when they returned to the camp and Krem approached to report to him—then, quietly, Dorian slipped away. Bull wanted to reach out and pull him back, but he couldn’t quite do it. He needed…he needed to think. Process things. Find a routine to center himself… _Check on the boys._ That was a good idea. He’d check up on all the Chargers—all of them. He’d sort out post-battle details and prepare to break camp tomorrow. He’d do everything The Iron Bull did every day on the road.

Then he’d talk to Dorian.

\--

_“Come with me.”_

The moment Dorian stepped out of sight, into the darkness within the cabin, large arms were around him. A huge, warm hand cupped his face, and Dorian whimpered and followed where the hand guided, eyes already closed.

He shook, he _burned_ when Hissrad kissed him.

Arms lifted him. Dorian melted. Hissrad set him on some sort of shelf that was built into the wall, and Dorian wrapped his legs around the man’s waist and pulled him in tighter. Hands roamed, the kiss frantic, breathless, greedy.

“This what you want?” Panted against his mouth.

“Yes, _yes!_ ” Dorian whispered pulling him close again.

Hissrad’s hot mouth sought his throat, and Dorian gasped. “I thought…you didn’t know the feeling of desire.”

A groan against his throat. “I didn’t. I do now.”

Hands upon him again, and Hissrad’s mouth stole Dorian’s whimper.

Dorian was no stranger to secretive trysts in the dark…and yet he felt entirely unprepared for _this_ , whatever this was. It was more akin to the rare lover with whom he’d shared a wild night of passion—arranged in advance and covered with alibis—but it was not that, either. Even with the most willing men, he had always preserved some restraint.

There was no restraint in this. Not in the way he touched and kissed Hissrad, not in the way the wonderfully, _wonderfully_ huge man held him and touched him in return.

In the very most distant corner of his mind, Dorian was aware that this could be a trick. _All along, not after a prisoner exchange. Conversion. A converted altus could…_ Well, a _real_ altus, turned _true_ convert? Probably unheard-of. Probably _invaluable_. Probably worth any deception, and Dorian had made no secret that he was weak to affection. _Temptation_.

But that thought never pushed itself to the fore, and it was soon dismissed. His hands on Hissrad’s chest could feel the hammering, racing beat of his heart. The sweat gathering in the hollow where clavicles met throat. The pressure of…of…

_Oh, kaffas, yes!_

With a strained sound, Hissrad broke the kiss—but he remained close. He tore his hands off Dorian, but planted them on the shelf on either side of him. Was it Dorian’s imagination that the wood creaked under his grip?

Panting, hot, heavy breaths…from both of them.

“I’ve never…never been accustomed to…stopping here,” Dorian managed, voice raspy. Lips swollen.

“And I’ve never gone this far.” Hissrad’s voice was impossibly low—more a growl than anything. It set Dorian _aching._ “With…you know.”

_With someone other than a tamassran._ That also probably meant: _With a man._ And, _With a bas. With a saarebas._ With everything that Dorian was.

“Do you want to stop?” he managed, weakly.

“ _No._ ”

Dorian moaned, and latched on to Hissrad’s throat with his mouth, and pulled him close with his legs. He shuddered as his aching cock rubbed hard abs…as Hissrad’s straining loincloth pressed between his legs, _under_. Dorian shifted. Aligned them. Shook, as Hissrad growled and thrust against him.

Hissrad’s hands fumbled and then his loincloth was gone, but trousers were too complicated for him, too unfamiliar in the dark. So Dorian grunted and freed himself with a careless jerk upon the ties of his trousers, and then they were flesh to flesh, still kissing passionately, and Dorian clung to this mountain of a man, his arms around that thick neck, hanging on for dear life as Hissrad took him by the hips and rutted against him _hard_.

“This is…the way _you_ do it?”

And all he could answer was a litany of “ _Yes, yes, yes, yes!_ ”

It did not last long; it couldn’t. There was no finesse, no seduction. Only release. A release of everything that had been building in him since he first looked at this man as more than an animal. Oh, Dorian was _so_ easy, and he didn’t care. He choked, and spilled himself into a huge hand, the mouth kissing him suddenly gone soft against his lips. Lingering, gentle, as Hissrad growled and shook and spilled his own release against Dorian’s shaft.

As they softened, as they stilled…they never stopped kissing. That, perhaps more than anything, was what enthralled Dorian’s heart.

Hissrad drew him close. It was almost…a _hug_. “So…that’s _desire_ , huh?”

_As the starlight is like the sun._ “That’s…yes.” What could he say? _Desire_ made him hard for a man; it didn’t burn in his chest and bring tears to his eyes. “I might even call it _passion_. A similar thing.”

“Mmm.” Hissrad nuzzled against his throat. “I…don’t want to let go of you.”

“Then don’t,” Dorian breathed.

And he didn’t. He untied the hammocks and threw them on the floor and carried Dorian to them, and they lay down there in the hut in the trees, and Dorian fell asleep wrapped in massive, warm arms.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, super huge thanks to everyone who comments <3

Downstream they went, in coracles, Hissrad guiding the craft with a pole in the muddy river. Dorian sat ahead of him, and other Qunari piloted other craft nearby. They were armed and intimidating. They wouldn’t face Vints any other way, not even for a peaceful meeting.

He and Hissrad had barely spoken today. And Dorian’s heart ached, and his stomach twisted. He’d never woken in the arms of a lover before…and although he’d give just about anything for it, he wouldn’t, couldn’t convert. A _viddathari saarebas_ would not have the privilege anyway. So he was leaving.

The little voice in the back of his mind that whispered doubt had been silenced when they began this journey. It seemed Hissrad really meant to keep his word and return Dorian to Tevinter. Perhaps that meant he had also been honest about the Rivaini ship that would steal him away again—to freedom.

_Perhaps he was also honest about…_

__“I owe you an apology,” Dorian finally said, in his most genial and charming voice. Hissrad, behind him, only hummed inquisitively. “I always rather doubted that you really meant to release me.” Not entirely true—Dorian was far too trusting—but he had, a little, so he could still apologize. “I supposed a quick death, when I proved unwilling to convert. Do forgive my suspicion.”

“Nah. It’s fair. I don’t blame you.”

_Come with me, I want you, stay by my side, forever…_

That was silly.

_Touch me, take me, adore me, give up everything for me…_

That was so selfish.

_I’ll be yours forever, I’ll withhold nothing…_

That was… _Oh Maker._ Probably true.

It was too bad, really. An altus should absolutely not be so easy.

“Hey. Dorian?”

“Mm?” He didn’t look back over his shoulder.

“I’m going with you.”

Dorian froze.

“Not today. Go on with the plan. I’ll be on the _Sea Spider_ , when she captures you. I’m thinking Free Marches after Rivain. Good with you?”

Slowly, Dorian’s head turned. Not all the way. But softly, he asked over his shoulder, “Truly?”

“It’s what I want. And it’s…it’s fine.”

His heart was bursting, he was sure of it. “I had…no idea.”

“I didn’t know until I woke up this morning. I thought I would be ashamed, but I’m not.” Hissrad’s voice softened a little. Dorian could barely hear him. “ _Kadan…_ I want to wake up like that every day, until I die.”

_Oh, Amatus, Amatus!_

“So you shall,” Dorian answered around the lump in his throat. “From the moment we meet again. So…” He managed a smile, and glanced back over his shoulder. “Do hurry.”

\--

It was like slipping into old robes that still fit, only one simply hadn’t worn them in so long that one rather forgot what they felt like.

Except it hadn’t been long at all.

The Tevinter forces were mostly _soporati_ with a few _laetan_ mages leading them, and despite the fact that Dorian was essentially very much in their debt for rescuing him—and soon to be the reason they all probably got severely reprimanded and possibly demoted when they lost the altus they’d exchanged Qunari prisoners for—they were still expected to treat him like a king, and he was expected to treat them all like worthless old mules. It felt wrong, and strange, and yet Dorian said and did everything expected of him almost without thinking about it. He was a natural.

He even found the food genuinely unappetizing, as it was, after all, military fare. Even though it was clearly the very best the camp could produce and had the advantage of resembling familiar dishes from home—it was made with less quality and skill, and therefore disappointing. He complained about it, because he felt he had to, but he didn’t add any threats or insults.

Stepping onto the Tevinter ship was the first moment of fearful uncertainty—quickly eclipsed by seasickness. Dorian should probably have been thankful that he was too dizzy to stand and too busy throwing up to worry about whether the plan would work or not.

It did.

The _Sea Spider_ swept toward them from a cove where it had been hiding, and the Tevinter ship, thankfully, was not actually a warship—just a reclaimed merchant vessel with enough guns to survive at sea, but not enough to mount a serious battle. And when faced with an attacker that was clearly a pirate, the captain didn’t put up much of a fight. He was carrying mostly ill or injured soldiers and messages, little cargo of value. He expected the pirate would take whatever coin they could and whatever supplies they fancied and let him go.

They did, but they also knew an altus when they saw one and took him, too. Dorian was swooped over to his Rivaini rescue ship with the _soporatus_ captain’s stricken face behind him—one more guilty memory.

He was taken below, apparently a prisoner, but the Rivaini captain met him there shortly. Dorian swallowed his nausea and thanked the man warmly, then asked, “Where is Hissrad?”

Sea-weathered dark skin wrinkled in a wince, and Dorian’s stomach immediately turned over, threatening to revolt again.

“He was to meet in cove, but not arrive. Been more fighting on the isle, smokes and fires. Was not your people?”

Dorian’s legs felt weak. “The camp I was in did not seem to be making ready for any such battle…”

“Most like the fog warriors, then,” the man nodded. “Tal-Vashoth not press so hard.” He sighed. “By my word, we go little further and wait. I give the sun one pass across sky, then must get on.”

So Dorian sat, and felt ill, and tortured himself, watching the shoreline, and when the captain announced they had to set sail, he begged, pleaded, and demanded another day. “You want your people find us?” the man countered angrily. “An altus, you think they just give up? Their ships be after you. Already, we must pray good wind to reach Llomerryn quick.”

There was nothing he could say.

Dorian stood at the railing and watched the shores of Seheron recede, and he showed nothing that he felt, because he was a natural. But he supposed he would never see that island again, and more than likely he would never even know if the Qunari Hissrad was alive or dead, or what had happened to him.

Someday, in a little inn far away, safe beyond his family’s reach and drowned in alcohol, he would cry for hours in the dark, but not today. Today he stood on shaking legs and burned the last sliver of green into his memory before Seheron vanished, and then he thought with bitter irony that he was probably the first person ever to look at that miserable island with such longing.

_What an achievement, Dorian Pavus._

__\--

Riding back into Skyhold, the Inquisition followed their Inquisitor and Commander both. Evelyn and Cullen were riding side by side. To the rank and file, it was an inspiring picture. To those who knew them, there was more to it than their leadership positions. They rode closer to each other than they ever had before—not by much. Just a little. But enough. And they often glanced at each other, eyes meeting without evasion, warmth in their gazes. It was cute.

But Bull didn’t just watch them.

He watched everyone, like he always did, but he couldn’t help noticing Dorian. The way Dorian looked at the new couple—satisfied, happy for them, but wistful, too. Not enough to be noticeable to anyone else. Just sometimes, his eyes… Bull wasn’t even sure he’d have picked up on it, before. But Dorian was looking a little different to him, now.

He still didn’t remember. Not much. Nothing new. But he knew enough. The reeducators would not have created a _Vasaad_ in his memory unless they needed to. There was someone else, someone they’d needed to replace in Bull’s mind. Someone very inconvenient, who was attached to important facts, but whose presence could not simply be erased.

It had to be Dorian.

So all along, maybe it was true. Bull wasn’t too happy with the idea, but he was willing to accept it, given the evidence. If he were still Qunari, he’d have definitely turned himself in at this point, but that wasn’t an option to him now. So—what to do?

What did he _want_ to do?

Part of him was curious—how much had he lost? Part of him was pragmatic—the missing information hadn’t affected his work so far; why should it now? Part of him thought none of this affected the Chargers; part of him thought he should at least try to fill in the gaps in his mind, to better maintain himself in good condition as their leader.

And…Dorian.

Technically, aside from fighting together, Dorian was none of his concern. _But_.

He could see it now—the more he watched. The weariness hovering around Dorian’s edges. How thin his performance had worn. He looked like…an old wound. An old, _open_ wound. One that had been bleeding for far too long, that had grown worn around the edges. One that needed to be closed, and healed, or soon it would be impossible, and he would bleed out.

Kind of dumb, of course. Dorian wouldn’t _die_ of this, it wasn’t the same thing. But he _felt_ that way. It made something awful twist in Bull’s gut to look at him. It made him want to help.

He knew what he had to do, in order to help. He had to remember.

He went to Cassandra. He explained things. And he asked if she had any ideas, any techniques for recovering memories.

She left off beating up the training dummy to study him with her frank and fearless gaze. “Perhaps. I do not think I can guide you along a sure path. This is not something the Seekers deal with, specifically. However, perhaps we might use meditation to rediscover some of what you have lost.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Bull agreed. “The Ben-Hassrath use meditation for a lot of things, but I wasn’t sure how to begin. We’re always…focusing on the Qun. Doesn’t seem useful here. I just don’t have much to focus on.”

Cassandra nodded. “Perhaps we should begin there. At the beginning.”

So, Bull followed Cassandra up the tower’s familiar steps, paying a visit to Dorian in the library. Bull let Cass do the talking. She was blunt and to the point, and good at making a request without any…subtext. Bull just watched Dorian’s face as he listened to her.

“Ah.” He smiled politely…glanced at Bull. But his smile looked closer to tears than anything else. _Worn thin_ , he thought again. _Not much mask left to put on._ “So—how we met? Is that the question?” Bull nodded, because Dorian wasn’t really looking at Cassandra anymore. “Very well.” He sat back, projecting imperial ease so hard it was almost funny. “Your ship spotted a vessel that, apparently, resembled a slave ship you knew of. You attacked, as you told me, with the idea of freeing the slaves. The ship ran aground on Seheron, which led to a battle on the beach. It was interrupted by the arrival of fog warriors, who promptly massacred nearly everyone.” His gaze dropped, just for a moment, then returned. “I was fighting, but when the fog appeared I fled into the jungle. You evidently saw my escape, because you followed, caught up with me, and… _caught_ me.” His eyes dropped again. “Not unopposed, as it happens. I’ve already told you of the arrangement we came to, at that point. Is that enough of a starting place for your meditation?”

Cass looked over at him. “That should suffice. Thank you.”

Dorian nodded to her. Looked over at Bull. Nodded to him, too, but a tic slower. His voice went a bit softer, too. “Good luck.”

Bull wanted to say something…but he didn’t know _what_. Instead, he followed Cass. “We shall procure a secluded place for your meditation. Your room above the tavern will not be quiet enough, I would imagine.”

“Yeah. Hey…let me stop by the boss’ room and let her know what I’ll be doing. No telling how long this is going to take.”

Cass nodded. “Meet me in the armory when you are done.”

“Got it.”

He climbed to Evelyn’s room and knocked on her door, but got no answer. Trying it, he found it unlocked. “Boss?” All was quiet inside, and the fire was unlit. Bull left, scanning around for any sign of her as he walked back through the castle. It was getting late, and most people had turned in…

Outside, he could see the tavern, bright and noisy, and he was just thinking of checking there for her next, when he noticed a light in the Commander’s window. But it wasn’t the usual window—his office. It was above, probably the loft where he slept. He didn’t usually bother with a light when he went to bed. Not for long, anyway. And he didn’t usually turn in until much, much later.

Bull grinned and didn’t bother checking the tavern. He’d ask Cass to let the boss know in the morning.

\--

Evelyn swirled into the library after several days’ absence. She’d been busy dealing with the aftermath of Adamant and planning the Inquisition’s next move. However, in the free time she typically used to visit all her companions and deal with smaller matters, she’d been conspicuously absent. Dorian had quietly gone on with his research each day, and drunk himself blind each night. Habits, after all. They were a fine and consoling thing to fall back on.

When Evelyn approached him, Dorian smiled fondly. She was _glowing_ , as the expression had it. “So much for swearing off Templars, both present and former, I see.”

She stopped and stared at him agape for a moment, reddening. Then, gathering herself: “ _Must_ you know absolutely everything, even before I tell you? If you already have all the details, what do we have to gossip about?”

Dorian closed his books and set everything aside. “My lady Inquisitor, I have no details at all. Perhaps you should tell me.” He smiled. “So? Has there been any progress between you and our faithful Commander?”

She beamed, but tried to feign disgruntlement. “You’ll not get that bird back in its cage now. You might as well tell me how you know.”

Skipping over the as-yet-undiscovered eavesdropping—spare her the embarrassment, if possible—he simply answered, “It is unfortunately rather obvious with one look at you.” Then, brushing past that, he settled in. “So. Tell me everything.”

And Evelyn did, because she was bursting with it, and Dorian gladly dismissed his own cares for a while to listen to Evelyn tell him all about falling into a love that happily turned out to be requited and hopefully would continue, uninterrupted by death or disaster.

He was a bad enough man to feel a certain jealousy, but he was a good enough friend to be glad for her too, and that was, for now, the stronger feeling.

At length, Evelyn had told her story, and Dorian had teased and congratulated her, and she finally remembered what she was supposed to be doing today. Following up with everyone after Adamant.

“I came upon Cassandra beating Bull with a stick. Some kind of Qunari thing,” she shrugged. “But I’d heard he was meditating alone?”

Dorian hadn’t heard about the stick, yet. He hadn’t, in fact, heard anything about Bull emerging from his solitary meditation. “He was. Perhaps he’s done?” Maker help Dorian if that was the case. He wasn’t nearly ready to face…whatever came next.

“I wonder what’s the matter,” she hummed.

Determined not to be a coward about this, Dorian confessed, “His…vision in the Fade.” He met Evelyn’s eyes. “Apparently it was a memory of his experience with reeducation.” She froze, wide-eyed. “It seems to have convinced him of…the truth, at least to a certain extent. I believe he’s trying to recover whatever memories he can that the Ben-Hassrath removed.”

“Oh. Maker.” She leaned forward quickly and took his hands. “That’s wonderful, Dorian! Surely now he’ll remember you, and perhaps even…!”

“My friend, please.” He smiled stiffly. “Even if he does remember, that hardly guarantees that his feelings will return to…what they were. Or what they seemed to be,” he added, quietly. 

“No…” she agreed, quieting. “But Dorian, what if they do?”

“If he comes to care for me?” Dorian considered. “I think, then, you will be proven right in your suspicion that all along I’ve been lying about my disinterest.”

He managed to sound as dispassionate as ever, but Evelyn, it seemed, was learning to read people more skillfully than she used to. Or perhaps she simply knew Dorian better now. Without a word, she hugged him. _Hugged. Him_.

“Ugh,” he sighed. “Such demonstrations, Inquisitor. Really.”

He had some dust in his eyes he was then obliged to wipe away. Evelyn politely didn’t comment.

\--

Rebuilding memories was _slow._

Bull’s method, as dictated by Cassandra, was to picture in his mind the events, in order. To walk through them, re-live them, as far as he could. Then, the moment he hit a dark spot, or confusion—stop. Go back to the beginning. Start again. Pay no attention to flashes of memory that did not connect to what came next. They were probably later events, and he would come to them in time. For now, they were distractions.

Part of the problem, too, seemed to be that his memories had been rearranged in reeducation. The first memory, the beginning, was a battle on the beach. As Bull pictured it, the scene was familiar, but in his mind, he thought it was the battle when Vasaad had died, just before he turned himself in. But there was no Vasaad, he reminded himself. This wasn’t a memory from the end; it was only the beginning.

It took days.

And of course, he couldn’t meditate all the time. There was still work to be done. The Chargers went to clean up after Adamant, and Evelyn was preparing to take him on a mission, but she got sidetracked by some business for Cole. That left Bull more time in Skyhold to meditate. Some of what he uncovered, painstaking bit by bit, was pretty surprising.

“Hey, Dorian!” Dorian looked up from his books at the intruder in the library. Bull held up his hand. “Did you shoot my fingers off?”

A blink. Lips pressed tightly together for a moment. Then, with a clearing of his throat, “I, ah, do apologize for that. It was an accident.”

Bull growled a bit. “An _accident?_ ”

“Well,” Dorian simply replied, “I was trying to kill you, and I missed.” He glanced at Bull’s hand, then back to his face. “Oops?”

Bull narrowed his eyes at the guy. He was…annoyed, not really mad. And he wasn’t even annoyed at Dorian for the lost fingers. He was mostly annoyed that they’d known each other this long, and Dorian had been aware this whole time of how Bull lost his fingers, and Bull _hadn’t_ known, and he’d been having all that shitty phantom pain the whole time too! Which, come to notice it, hadn’t happened in a while. _Huh._

_Then again, guess now I know why he’s always paying attention to them._

Glowering, Bull let it go—mostly. “You owe me two drinks, one for each.”

A flicker in Dorian’s eyes. His voice gone soft. “I owe you much more than that, I’m afraid, but we can start with two drinks. Tonight?”

“Tonight,” he grunted, leaving he library.

\--

Bull had figured ale. He got brandy. Two snifters.

“Hey,” he rumbled happily. “Apology _accepted_.”

Dorian smiled—small, but not tight or false. “Have you made any further progress?”

He grunted. “Eh. Not really. I remember how we met. Remember sitting in a hole in the ground, and you being kind of an asshole. Can’t seem to pick up where it goes from there.”

“Travel through the jungle, mostly,” Dorian supplied. “I suppose it would be difficult to recall the particulars. _I_ certainly don’t anymore. It was years ago, now.”

“Crap,” Bull mumbled. “The whole method sort of depends of being able to line things up in the right order. But a couple days of trekking through the jungle? Probably won’t be able to sort all that out, separate it from all the _other_ times I went trekking through the jungle in those ten years.”

Dorian’s mask was nonchalant. “You know, Bull, you don’t have to do this.” He looked up from the seat beside him. “You already have the general idea. The details don’t mean much to you at this point.”

“Do they not?” He studied Dorian.

“They don’t… _need_ to,” he answered, voice dropping.

Carefully neutral: “Well, I’d like to find out what happened to me. If I can. Even if it doesn’t change much, I’d like to know how I left Seheron. What happened, if I didn’t turn myself in?”

“I suppose you’ve every right to that much,” Dorian softly agreed.

“Yeah.” He studied Dorian for another moment—the weary strain clouding his eyes. The edges of fear he used to hide so well. “Something you don’t want me to remember, Dorian?”

A little tension in the shoulders. _Guilty._ “Of course not.”

“Because _you’re_ the one who has been telling me all this time that I had giant holes in my memory that I need to acknowledge and deal with…”

“I know,” Dorian cut him off, a little sharply. “And I’m relieved you’ve finally decided to believe me and do something about it. I wish you complete success.”

_Poor guy._ Bull knew enough about “feelings” to detect the effect they had on others. The how and why sometimes confused him, but he’d be a pretty shit spy if he couldn’t see them when they were there. Usually, he just reported them and let others figure out what it meant. That wasn’t an option anymore.

“We _did_ have sex, didn’t we?”

Dorian didn’t look at him. “If only it were…only that.”

_So it was more than that._ Apparently, for some reason, that was a problem now. _Hmm._ “Did you like me too?”

For a moment, Dorian didn’t breathe. Then, slowly, he turned. _Stared._ “What do you mean, ‘too’?”

Bull frowned. “I mean, I’m assuming I really liked you—I like you _now_ , so.” Dorian’s eyes were comically wide. “Did I make you uncomfortable somehow? Is that what you don’t want me to remember?”

But Dorian, like a deaf old tama, just repeated Bull’s words like he hadn’t heard them right. “What do you mean you like me now?”

“Are you shitting me? Is that a question?” This conversation was getting all tangled up.

“But you don’t actually…I mean. You want to punch me in the face!”

“Yeah!” Bull spread his hands, as if to say _Uh, obviously_. “ _And_ you’re a good guy. And you piss me off. And you’re pretty. And if we _did_ have sex, I’d like to be able to remember that, because I bet it was really hot. It’s half the reason I keep trying with all this meditation crap. So I can remember what you look like naked.”

Dorian’s round human ears went bright red. “Well, I’m sorry to crush your rather crude hopes, but you never saw me naked,” he snapped.

A grin spread across Bull’s face. “So we did it without undressing? Hot.”

Dorian turned a glare on him that was rendered even more attractive than his usual murderous fury by the bright color creeping up his fine throat. “You…are…that is not the _point!_ ” His was ramrod stiff in his royal peevishness. “What happened between us is not nearly as important as all the other… The reeducators could _easily_ have removed one sexual encounter without altering your memory in any other way, if it was only… And _you!_ You single-minded, pig-headed—after all this time, to finally decide to remember, just for the sake of—can you think with something other than your dick for _once?_ ”

“Hey, that’s not very fair.” And while he was thinking about it, Bull added, “If you don’t want me thinking about you like that, why are you always teasing and showing off your ass and kissing me and shit?”

A sudden drop in the volume of the tavern around them caught Bull’s attention—and Dorian’s, at the same time. “ _Maker_ ,” he muttered under his breath, through clenched teeth.

Bull stood and gestured toward the door. Dorian also stood—quickly, yet still with aristocratic grace—and led the way outside. Bull followed, and they rounded the front of the tavern and began to head aimlessly up to the battlements.

“You have to admit you’ve been flirting,” Bull pointed out.

“Perhaps I simply thought that if there was anything that might trigger a memory—or compel you to seek one—it would be lust.” Then he tossed back over his shoulder, “A most justified guess, apparently.”

Bull frowned and opened his mouth…and then closed it with a snap. _Aaaaaannnndd, there you go again._ Dorian was ascending the stairs to the battlements. Just ahead of him. In his tight trousers. _Again_.

Then Bull narrowed his eyes. “So you’ve been playing the cock tease _for my own good?_ ”

“You’re most welcome.” Lightly. Airily, even.

They reached the walk and Bull stopped. “Cut the crap.”

Dorian spun toward him. “ _What._ ”

He was bristling, all Vinty defensiveness smoothly covered by regal poise—or it would have been smoothly covered. Used to be. There were more and more rumples, these days, so the defensiveness was hard for Bull to miss, tonight, and just like that, the fight was over. Nothing took the aggressive urge out of Bull like seeing someone face him like he was a threat, like they needed to protect themselves from him.

So Bull wasn’t fighting anymore—didn’t mean Dorian wouldn’t. He was coiled and ready to strike, at the moment, and Bull needed to calm him down, because he was tired of fucking these conversations up and having Dorian kick him out, or walk out on him, or otherwise abruptly end their attempts to make peace.

It was a good thing Bull knew Dorian pretty well by now. He’d seen the guy go for the throat on his enemies, from Venatori to Orlesian assholes, but he’d never seen Dorian strike a friend who was down. Never even seen him walk over someone who was really hurting—he was sweet like that. Different from the rest of his set.

Not that Bull needed to start crying to make this work. If he just put his walls down, Dorian would…wouldn’t he? Probably.

“I’m scared,” he said. It was just the first thing to surface, when he went looking for the truth. “I’m not Qunari anymore. But that doesn’t make it easy to think that the reeducators really…went as far as it looks like they might have. I keep coming back to _why_ , and I’ve got only one idea. You hinted at it.” He swallowed, braced for the flash of anger in that corner of his mind. “Tal-Vashoth.” He said it, felt the unpleasant kick, weathered it, and moved on. Dorian’s posture was less rigid already, his eyes just a bit wide and watching. “I’m scared of the idea that I was thinking of running from Seheron. I don’t know why I would have. I don’t know if I want to find out.”

“You said you _wanted_ to know…” Voice softer. Careful. _Sweet guy._

“I did. I _do_. But it’s…scaring me.” _So. There’s that._ But there was more than that, too. “And I’m not dumb. I’ve noticed, um—” How to put it? “—that this hasn’t been easy for you, either. Sorry for complaining about the flirting. I know it’s complicated.”

Dorian was shutting his expressions away, hard. Not able to pull much of a mask out to cover the barely maintained blank. “Put mildly,” he agreed, voice tight.

Bull just looked at him. “What _did_ happen between us, Dorian?”

Hope, and hesitation. “I really…I do think it will mean more to you if you can recover your own memories…”

“I will, if I can,” he promised. But he didn’t retract the question. After a minute, Dorian swallowed. Glanced down.

“There wasn’t really any way for me to stay.” He glanced up again. “As I’m sure you can imagine. My only option was to escape, and that was difficult enough. But even so, I…” Again, his gaze dropped. “… _Wished._ ” Dorian didn’t add anything else to that thought, but Bull understood.

“And I ‘wished’ too?” _And more_ … “And maybe decided I had other options?”

Dorian didn’t look at him right away. He reached out and touched Bull’s maimed hand. Lightly, at first—then, he took it, and his grip was firm. Kind of reassuring. It was nice. “I don’t think your own desires would have weighed heavily enough, no matter how strong. But the situation was…complicated.” He finally glanced up again, with a faint apologetic wince. “I made it so, inadvertently. You had more to consider than your own wishes, or even mine. You told me you had reason to believe it might be best for everyone. I cannot fully explain all of that; if you can regain those memories I think it will make more sense to you than it did to me. But…you were never such a selfish man.”

“Okay.” Bull nodded. “Good to know. Thanks.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over Dorian’s lips. He nodded, rubbing his thumb briefly across the stumps of the short fingers before dropping Bull’s hand.

And it was shit like that, wasn’t it? And a million other little moments of longing and care, and all the times Bull’s gut pulled on him, dragging forward, toward this guy. This was the out-of-his-depth kind of crap, but it was his alone to navigate, now.

Dorian started to take a step back, like that was it, and Bull snatched his hand back. “Hey.” Gentle. Dorian looked a little surprised. “Hey Dorian, um.” Eyes white and silver with moonlight. “Are you in love with me?”

Dorian shut his eyes, then, so Bull wasn’t sure for a minute what to make of the tension on his face. “What a rude question,” he finally answered, almost voiceless.

“Sorry.” Bull meant it. “I’m not good at this shit. Don’t know the manners for talking about feelings. I just wanted to know why you’re unhappy.”

“To what end?”

“Sorry?” Bull blinked.

Dorian opened his eyes, and there was a kind of cornered resolution in them—like he was facing down a behemoth on low mana. “Why should you concern yourself so much with my baffling human emotions? You’re ill-equipped to handle them, and you have your own matters to deal with at the moment, as well.”

He frowned a little and shrugged. “Just wanted to help if I could.”

With a weak smile, Dorian gently extracted his hand. “I doubt that will be possible.” His voice whispered roughly, half broken, “You see—to answer your question—I _was_ in love with you, and then I thought you dead.” He smiled a little. “I’m still eager to find out what happened there, by the way. You ought to have a fantastic excuse for not running away with me.”

“I’ll try to remember.” Bull quickly answered that part to get back to the more important-sounding bit. “If you felt that way, why be so cold? I’m up for whatever; especially if it’s you. All you had to do was tell me.” Maybe not when he was still Ben-Hassrath, but at the very least, in the time since…

The smile faded, as well as the levity. “I’ve put all that aside as best I can. With such a large gulf between my feelings and yours…” He searched Bull’s face, apparently expecting to see understanding. When he didn’t, because Bull didn’t fucking know how a sentence like that was supposed to end, he added, “It would be painful for me. Unrequited feelings shouldn’t be indulged at all; it only makes things worse.”

He’d had no experiences with that to confirm or deny it, but for once, Bull figured he could take Dorian’s word for it and just believe him. “So then,” he hummed, “you don’t want to love me as long as I don’t love you?”

“More or less,” Dorian sighed.

“Okay, but…why just give up? Why not try that thing you humans do?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know. Seduce me.” Dorian blinked at him, and Bull shrugged. “Or court me, woo me, whatever the right word is. You know. Win me over ’til I love you back. Then it’s good, right?”

For a full minute and a half, Dorian just stared at him, jaw slightly agape. Then, weakly: “You…were…Ben-Hassrath.”

“Fair enough,” Bull agreed. “I’m not anymore, though.”

“That’s…true.” Bull nodded encouragement. Another long pause. Dorian’s eyes were full of thoughts and feelings. “I’m…afraid to try. What if it doesn’t work?”

Tilting his head slightly, Bull offered, “Isn’t that normal for everyone?”

Dorian looked absolutely stumped. “Well I…I mean. _Can_ you? Love someone that way, I mean.”

He was honest: “Don’t know.” A crooked smile. “Yet. Want to find out?”

Still staring, Dorian seemed to be gathering himself. “Could I? I mean…pardon me. May I…well, attempt to, ah, win your…heart?”

Even by moonlight, Dorian’s face was flushed _dark_.

“Yup.”

“ _Ha._ ” Dorian rubbed his brow. “Just like that?”

“Yup.” Bull grinned at him. He sort of wanted to pull Dorian into his arms and kiss him, but he figured, if they were going to set things up like this, he should probably let Dorian take the lead.

Dorian’s idea for that was to lift his maimed hand between them, holding it in both his smaller, human hands, and kiss the backs of his knuckles. Then move a little. More kisses. Paying special attention to those stumps. Eyes closed at first, then drifting open to look up at him. Dark pupils wide, swallowing his eyes until the irises were little more than silvery rings around them. “I truly do apologize for these.” His soft, full lips just brushed the fingers.

“Forget it,” Bull murmured. “Haven’t missed them once.”

Dorian’s throat bobbed. “I want you so terribly,” he breathed, and Bull grinned.

“Hey, I’m not busy tonight. So if there’s something you want to do that I ca— _mmf!_ ”

With one hand, Dorian reached toward him, wrapped that arm around the back of Bull’s neck, and _pulled_. And this kiss was more like what Bull would have expected from Dorian—a _demand_ , deep and hungry and _hot_. But Dorian still surprised him, because the passion wasn’t _greedy_. There was something very giving in it—a combination of attention and craving that Bull wasn’t familiar with. But it was _good_.

He got his hands on Dorian, _finally_ , his arms around a strong, hard body. It felt great, but it also felt _right_. His gut told him _fuck yes_ , and every inch of Dorian he touched made his hands tingle and burn in the most perfectly addicting way. And Dorian’s voice—there were hungry little gasps when their lips almost-parted, and groans as their tongues collided that sounded almost like growling. _Hot._

__Bull had just begun to wonder how far they were from the door to his room, and if he should maybe pick Dorian up to…

And then Dorian shoved, and Bull’s back hit wood instead of stone, and Bull thought _Oh good, there it is,_ and grabbed the latch and almost broke it shoving the door open.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little short; last chapter's a little long. Get ready for the E rating! ;) And a little bit of _spiritus ex machina_ maybe, lol.

As soon as the bolt fell, Dorian’s strong hands were unbuckling the strap of Bull’s harness, ridding him of it without releasing Bull from the kiss. He also took care to set the harness down gently; he didn’t just drop it. _Nice of him_ , Bull thought. Not that the leather couldn’t handle the treatment. But Dorian was sweet like that.

Bull saw the brief glint of a moonbeam in Dorian’s eyes as they half-opened, glanced to the side, and then the hearth burst into crackling flame, the half-burnt logs blazing afresh, casting a warm glow over the room, and over Dorian. His complexion was suited to firelight, and the flickering shadows were a smoky darkness across his features, highlighting their sharp angles. He looked fucking gorgeous. Bull was already pretty much as seduced as he’d ever been.

Then Dorian spoke, his voice low and throaty, and seduced him a little bit more.

“If you would indulge me, Iron Bull, I’d very much enjoy a chance to suck your cock.”

Said cock went from interested to enthusiastic without the slightest fuss. Bull swallowed. “Heh. Eager to get a look, Dorian?”

But Dorian smirked, guiding his cooperative steps toward the bed and pushing him down to sit on the edge. “I’ve seen it,” he murmured, standing a little above Bull’s eye level, now.

“I thought you said…”

“I said you didn’t see me naked. I said nothing about how much of you I saw.”

That made him grin. _Hot_. “How much of you do I get to see tonight, then?”

“Hmm.” Dark, fire-lit eyes were playful, but Dorian didn’t answer. Instead, he knelt. But whatever he’d just promised, he first moved to Bull’s feet and helped him out of his boots. Then he moved to the belt, and set everything aside with his harness. There wasn’t much keeping Bull’s pants on, now—not that they’d fall off, he was sitting down. His erection was pitching an unmistakable tent in the loose fabric—worsened by the fact that Bull wasn’t wearing undergarments. He skipped them a lot, when they were in Skyhold. It was hard to come by smalls big enough for him, so he didn’t have many, and he usually saved them for traveling and fighting—when he wanted to keep everything safely in place. Around Skyhold, why bother? Just something else to take off all the time; something else to wash.

Worked out for him now, at least. Dorian’s eyes measured and _knew_ , and he seemed pretty thrilled by it. But he held himself back, stood in front of Bull, and started working on his fancy Vint buckles. _Slowly_.

Bull had seen girls do this kind of thing while dancing—both in specific kinds of public places and in private. Dorian wasn’t dancing, and he wasn’t making a big teasing production out of it, but he was holding Bull’s gaze and taking his time, and that was somehow hotter. That and the way Bull could already see the outline of Dorian’s cock in those tight trousers, and the way Dorian’s eyes lingered on him, and sharpened to breathless focus as Bull gave himself a squeeze through his pants. The fire blazed just a bit brighter for a moment.

Dorian shrugged out of his outer robes and draped them over a chair. His white undershirt was thin and fine, almost see-through, and the way he looked peeling it off to display all that gorgeous dark skin was…pretty damn spectacular.

Then he crowded into Bull’s space, between his legs, and kissed him again, slow and sultry. Bull’s hands went to Dorian’s bare skin like moth to flame, as they said in the South. Dorian made no move to prevent him. He was warm and firm and strong and perfect to the touch.

When he pulled back, he took a pillow with him, dropping it neatly on the floor and sinking to his knees between Bull’s spread thighs. He plucked at the ties of Bull’s pants, smiling up at him. Bull’s throat felt dry. “Aww. Not going to finish getting naked?”

“Not yet,” he declared, with the poise of a king on his throne, and then he got Bull’s pants open and aristocratically licked his erection a moment after it sprang free.

“Fuuuuuck,” Bull groaned.

“Later,” Dorian murmured, hands cradling Bull’s cock against his exploring mouth.

So, the same hour that he’d gotten into a dumb sort-of fight in the tavern, Bull was sitting on his bed with his pants open, a shirtless Dorian on his knees for him, sucking his way down Bull’s shaft with blatant hunger. It was fucking fantastic. He cradled Dorian’s head with one of his massive hands, and he watched an incredible amount of his cock disappear between those full lips.

As a qunari surrounded by smaller races, Bull was used to people taking their time a bit. Easing into this, getting used to him. That, or they choked. Dorian did neither. Dorian kissed and stroked and sucked his cock with no delicacy or uncertainty, and no stumbling. He was confident in his experience, but there was something else about it too. There was so much desire in him. Eyes closed or hazily half open or glancing up to meet his amazed stare—it all said the same thing. _I want you. So much._

_Fuck._

Pulling off and stroking vigorously, Dorian moved down, licking his balls and pulling them into his mouth, sucking gently. Then he licked back up, stopping every inch for an open-mouthed, sucking kiss. And then Dorian caressed his shaft as his lips embraced the ridge under Bull’s cock head as his hand snuck down between his own legs and pressed his clothed erection urgently.

_Hot._

__Dorian getting off on sucking him—that was _good_. It made Bull feel a little like a mindless object Dorian was using for his own pleasure, which was always great, but it was more than that, too. Nobody _ached_ so for mere objects, no matter how nice the object was.

It was _adoration_. Dorian didn’t just enjoy doing this. He wasn’t just taking what he wanted. It was a gift, too, but not an offering lifted up. A gift given on equal footing, hand to hand—and one the giver knew would not be refused. After all, perhaps in a little way, he knew Bull would not _dare_ refuse, but that was Dorian. An aristocrat, even on his knees.

Bull smiled down at him. He didn’t mean anything much by it; he just couldn’t help it. And Dorian smiled back, just a tiny smile, and the happiness that put crinkles at the corners of his eyes stayed there as he went down on Bull again.

Bull usually would take charge around this point, if he hadn’t already, and he’d stop things when he started to leak. He’d hold off, given Dorian a turn, and wait until later to come. But those weren’t the terms they’d established for this, so Bull didn’t take charge, and Dorian didn’t stop sucking him even when the flavor of his pre-release became unmistakable. Dorian didn’t even pull off to say what he wanted. He met Bull’s stare, and his grey eyes were hungry, but also demanding, so Bull let Dorian make him come.

Dorian whimpered and sucked up every drop as Bull’s vision went bright and blurry and he groaned as his cock spurted over and over and over and…

And Dorian was standing, his arms wrapping around Bull’s shoulders and laying him down. And although Bull didn’t really need the help, and he was pretty heavy— _Then again, he’s got some nice muscles, for a human_ —he let Dorian lead anyway. “You’re nice,” he sighed, as Dorian climbed onto the bed next to him.

“Mmm. Quite.” Dorian sounded pleased, but a little breathless too. Made sense—he was still hard in his trousers.

Bull rested a hand on Dorian’s hip, thump ticking over the arch of it. “Want to fuck my throat?”

That startled a laugh from Dorian. “Is that the way to a qunari’s heart? Aggressive oral sex?”

With a little growl: “Don’t know, but it’s a good way to get off. You’d like it…”

“Hmm,” Dorian purred, and swallowed. Breathing heavily: “I am trying to charm you, you beast, not use you like a tuppenny whore.”

“Hey, I like it,” Bull offered, “and you would too. That’s all that matters.”

“Usually, perhaps,” Dorian agreed. “And we may well enjoy those filthier pleasures later. But not tonight.” He smiled. “I may not have much experience in romance, but compared to you, I’m an authority. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“All right,” Bull hummed. “So what do you do to get off when you’re courting a guy?”

Dorian looked caught. “I…confess I don’t really know.” His hand stroked lazily over Bull’s chest. “Despite the profound wit that would doubtless result, I’d be delighted to ride you—” Bull grinned, rumbling happily. “—if that were practical, at the moment.” He winced slightly. “Sadly, I fear it would be ill-advised, tonight.”

“Been a while for you?”

A sigh. “These Southerners have proven unexpectedly resistant to my charms. Superstitious peasants.” Then, he met Bull’s gaze. “And, more recently, I’ve had little interest in…others.”

“Mmm.” Bull decided not to press him on that. There was a bit of vulnerability in the admission. Instead, he winked. “Any interest in finally letting me see you naked?”

Dorian’s laugh was warm. “I suppose I’ve kept you in suspense long enough.” He rolled off the edge of the bed and stood.

“Yeah,” Bull breathed, watching Dorian unlace his trousers. Unlike Bull, Dorian wore smallclothes—damn pretty, as he pushed the trousers off. His legs were fantastic—thick, strong thighs. Thick, strong cock reveled by inches as Dorian stripped his last clothing away. “Damn,” he murmured appreciatively as Dorian rejoined him, gloriously naked.

“Better?”

“ _Yeah_.” Dorian straddled one of his legs and leaned down over him. Bull ran his hands down Dorian’s muscled back. He thought about behaving himself—for a second. Then he threw that idea away and let his hands wander lower, petting a round, fucking firm, ample backside that was… _Hnngh._ “So, you really kept all your clothes on, before? And I was naked?”

Dorian smirked, dropping kisses along his collarbone. “Shocking, isn’t it? But true.”

Bull purred—soft. “All right. Tell me about it.”

Wicked grey eyes. Dorian pressed closer, skin to skin. “Well, you didn’t wear much on Seheron to begin with.”

That was true; Bull remembered. “So?”

“So when you cast that little scrap of fabric aside to better rut your cock against mine…” Dorian’s voice was low and throaty: “…That left you quite entirely nude. Whereas I had only to get my trousers open.” He grinned, hands rubbing up and down Bull’s body. Hips gently rolling. “You couldn’t manage the ties. Not in the dark, without looking.”

“Oh yeah? Or were you being a handful?”

Dorian gave him a look of mock innocence. “I didn’t seem to cause you much trouble when you picked me up…”

“Mmmm. Standing up frotting, huh?” Bull pictured it. The heat of the jungle, Dorian sweating in all his robes…

“Well, I was sitting. There was some sort of shelf built into the wall.” Dorian was rubbing himself more purposefully against Bull’s thigh, now. Bull squeezed handfuls of his ass, encouraging him. “You were quite a broad man to accommodate between my legs, even back then.”

“Didn’t make you sore, did I?”

A breathy laugh. “Oh, we didn’t get that far. We spent ourselves like that—both of us. Our stamina was a disgrace, technique was nothing at all…” The critique stuttered as Bull moved his hands up, caressing Dorian’s skin, meeting his eyes. Dorian swallowed. “And you held me in your arms until dawn. It was a rather…unparalleled night.”

Those grey eyes sought his, something in them pleading. Begging him for…Bull didn’t know what for, exactly, so he pushed up and kissed Dorian. He didn’t come up with anything clever to say after that, because Dorian kissed back passionately.

Instinct took over a bit, and Bull let it. Let Dorian grind against him, still kissing. Let Dorian find out, through chance contact, just how much his sexy writhing about on top of Bull was going straight to his cock. Dorian moaned and wrapped a hand around him, urging him back to full arousal, and then lined them up and rolled his hips. _Fucking hot_.

“Going to remind me how it went?”

“ _Mmm._ If you remember something, well and good, but it was not my design.” Dorian pulled back a moment to smirk at him. “You see, _I’m_ on top, this time.”

“Yeah you are…” Bull breathed, watching as Dorian leaned further up. Naked and fire-lit and pretty as fuck, on full display, hand wrapped around both of them to keep their cocks aligned as Dorian thrust his hips over and over. And Bull watched, aching hard, and thought, _This guy loves me._ That was sort of funny—he couldn’t think _why_ —but Bull understood love. He’d loved people before, he just hadn’t had sex with them. But this— _To him, this is a way of loving me._ Dorian had admitted it in the past tense, but fuck that. This was still love, now, and it was sex too, and to Dorian, Bull realized, those went together. They didn’t always have to, but when it happened, the connection was natural for him.

For Bull, it had never really connected up like that before, but the way Dorian looked, the way he fucked, the way this was feeling—he could see it. This was _really_ damn good. And Dorian was really feeling it—shaking, but holding back, something a little overwhelmed in his eyes…

“Bull.” He swallowed.

“Going to come, big guy?”

“ _Ha._ ” Dorian licked his lips. Wiped sweat from his face—unconscious twist of fingers fixing the moustache—and shoved his hair back, out of his eyes. “After you,” he panted.

“I think you’re closer than I am, Doria _aahhh, fuck!_ ”

That Vint, that clever bastard, had moved his grip on their cocks. Snuck his thumb under the ridge of Bull’s cockhead, pressed, and then stroked a line up and across the crown, smearing precome. Bull’s legs shook with the effort of holding still—if he thrust upward, he’d probably throw Dorian clean off. That wouldn’t be good. Not…not now, not when Dorian was _doing it again_ , and again and _again_ , still thrusting…

He might have been able to hold out a bit, but Bull didn’t bother. He let himself come in Dorian’s hand, and before he even finished shooting, Dorian went rigid, trembling, his cock spilling heavily against Bull’s.

It was a mess. Dorian was always so put-together, so pristine and carefully hidden, and right now he was a _mess_ and it was fucking great.

He sank down again, and Bull pulled him close, and Dorian kissed him, so damn sweet, and they just breathed together in the sticky heat. After a while, Dorian mumbled something about “shouldn’t impose any longer…” and Bull just settled him more comfortably in his arms and kissed his temple and murmured, “Stay.”

“Mmm.”

Dorian did.

\--

Bull opened his eyes to moonlight. Heat. Sounds of the jungle. It was familiar and peaceful.

“Will we reach your people tomorrow, do you think?”

The voice came from behind him, but he didn’t turn and look. His eyes remained outward, scanning the jungle, but at the same time he knew the face of the speaker, could see the shape of a man curled on some dry leaves.

“Should, if we don’t run into Tal-Vashoth.” He felt and heard himself answer, but he didn’t know exactly what he was talking about… _Oh wait, that’s right. We have to get to camp seven…if it’s still there._

“What about fog warriors?”

_Yeah, we’ll have to watch out for those guys. For both. Who knows how many are in this area…_

Even as he thought it, Bull heard himself answer. His voice carried on a conversation—talking about the Tal-Vashoth, what they were. When he said the word, he felt something like a sad sinking in his gut. Like _pity_. But none of the surging anger in his mind.

“What about you? You insane too, or what?”

He was looking back, now. Shadowed features. _Pretty_ features.

“I _beg_ your pardon.”

Part of him answered that with sarcasm, but part of him felt a smile, too. _Yeah, that’s just like you._ “Seems like gentleness would be good for you.” _It would, it really would._

_Hey. Let me give you that._

Conversation died, and something shifted. Without reason, and without the need for reason, he was moving through the jungle. He knew he’d been doing so for hours. He was tired.

Then, fog.

The fight was quick and deadly. Bull felt the crunch of neck bones snapping under his hands—still familiar, even after so long. _So long?_ He fought and killed this way a lot. It was the most efficient, the most merciful.

Why didn’t he have his axe, though? Dorian was right there, fighting too—his spells familiar, working with Bull’s fighting strategy, giving him opportunities, covering gaps when he was busy. What had happened to his battle axe, though? Was the Inquisitor here? She should be behind Dorian somewhere…

But this wasn’t a forest. And he grabbed a familiar, strong hand and started running through vines and giant, wet leaves. _Jungle_.

A spot to hide—that was good. He looked down at Dorian tucked into his side, and he heard what Dorian said and he answered it, but mostly he noticed the sweat coating Dorian’s face, running down into the hollow of his throat. He should lick that…

“You’re getting distracted. Pay attention. _Behind you!_ ”

Dorian’s voice brought him back to another battle. Bull roared and charged and fought. He saw an archer and red fury almost blinded him before he kicked the guy so hard he nearly cracked his spine against a tree.

He still didn’t have his axe; he had a shitty little sword, for some reason, and he put it through a guy’s chest, aware in the same moment that there was another guy behind him. He went to yank the blade free, and it got stuck—ribs or something, badly made blade, _shit_. He expected to feel his death blow.

Instead, he saw something out of the corner of his eye—and then the guy fell, a spear in his ribs. But it wasn’t a spear. He yanked it free. It was Dorian’s staff. He knew that, although he also knew he’d never seen this particular staff before. He’d have noticed. It looked Vinty as fuck, much worse than the usual level of Vintiness Dorian carried around. It looked like the kind of staff that some villagers wouldn’t look twice at before getting out the torches and pitchforks.

He was catching Dorian, steadying him, and talking about finding a tree to sleep in. And his mind was getting more and more confused by all this, because _fuck no_ , Inquisition forces didn’t sleep in _trees_. Trees around here were shit for that—well, maybe not in the Graves, but that was the only place Bull had seen trees with thick enough branches. And anyway, they had scouts and camps and nice tents…well, not as nice as a bed, but nicer than a tree, anyway. Dorian couldn’t sleep in a tree. That wasn’t his style.

“He’ll manage.”

Bull looked down at Dorian, confused.

Dorian smiled, and they were in a tree.

This time, he wasn’t _there_. Or…he _was_ , but outside of himself. He seemed to sit further out on the branches, where it wasn’t really safe, looking inward at himself and Dorian talking. Except he was—the _himself_ he was looking at was—he was younger. He had two eyes, and was cut up and burned up a bit. And Dorian looked a wreck. But Bull sat still and listened to the conversation, and he felt the feelings of the other him, but he also felt oddly faraway…and confused.

“It was the beginning of a shift.”

Bull turned his head, and beside him, there was Dorian too, but this Dorian was not wearing much. Just a scrap of clothing like they all wore on Seheron. And he seemed to kind of have…horns.

“What?”

The other two thems didn’t hear. They were quiet, hands clasped together under the moonlight.

“In your center,” he said, and that was when Bull realized the Dorian with horns was speaking Qunlat—because of the word he used, the one that didn’t exist in Common.

He turned his head back to the others and watched them climb out of the tree in the misty light of morning. Watched Dorian hesitate in his arms. Watched Dorian’s grey eyes speak plainer than any words.

“It was the beginning of a shift.”

He walked, following them. “How do you know?”

“I know by virtue of myself.”

“Is this a memory? Something I lost?”

“I can see it in his mind, but not yours.”

“In his mind? Dorian’s? So…” Bull looked at the nearly nude Dorian next to him, with his bronze skin and his curling horns. “Who are you?”

The face shifted, and for a second it was Vasaad. But there was no Vasaad. It was the reeducator who played him, and then it was Dorian again, and then his grey eyes were nothing but light. “I am Loyalty.”

“Yeah?” _Demon. Great._ “Well you can fuck off then. I won’t give you anything you want.” That was right. Dorian had told him, and Bull remembered. _No deals._

“I want nothing from you.”

Bull growled. “Then what are you doing here?”

The eyes went back to Dorian’s…mostly. There was a glow around his edges, still. They faced each other as the jungle fell away around them. A clearing—camp. But Bull couldn’t split his focus anymore. The events in the camp were barely on the fringe of his attention. “I saw one who once matched me as few do. But you have lost the means. I am searching, as you are searching. For the kadan. Then you will express me again.”

“I’m pretty loyal to the Inquisition and the Chargers, so I think you can fuck off after all,” Bull grunted.

The horned spirit-Dorian gazed at him. “There is more to see.”

“No thanks. I’ll find what I need on my own.”

Despite being rebuffed, the spirit smiled. “Go back to him, then.”

\--

Bull opened his eyes. He was in his own bed, and someone was in his arms. A good scent…

_Dorian. Right_.

His gaze ticked down to the back of Dorian’s head, dark hair tousled on his pillow. Dorian’s chest shifted slowly under his hands with each breath. It was _perfect_.

He didn’t have horns anymore. He’d been pretty sexy with horns. But this was still better.

Breathing deep and even, Bull shut his eyes and replayed the dream. He wasn’t totally unfamiliar with dreaming, but it was still a unique experience. He needed time to process it.

Dorian very kindly stayed asleep and let him.

For over an hour, until dawn began to turn the sky grey, Bull lay still, the solid weight of Dorian in his arms grounding him in reality, and he carefully went back over the dream. It didn’t connect up with any of the memories he’d regained so far, which was unlucky. He wasn’t sure the events were in the right order. But they all took place in the jungle, except the end, when he thought he’d seen bits of one of the Qunari camps.

Bull found that he was able to replay the whole thing in detail—not on the first try, but eventually. He used his meditation technique and restarted from the beginning of the dream every time he wasn’t sure of the thread he was following. By the time Dorian began to breathe more shallowly, Bull had most of it clear in his mind.

Dorian shifted, murmured something, and frowned in his sleep. Something about that moment felt _so damn familiar_ for a second…and then Dorian’s eyes blinked open. He hummed, a hand rubbing across Bull’s arm around his waist, a little smile starting to crinkle the corners of his eyes. Dorian twisted a little and looked up at him, and Bull couldn’t help smiling too. Then, voice rough with sleep, Dorian said, “You reek.”

He grinned. “You’re no perfume shop yourself right now, big guy.”

“Travesty.” Dorian yawned. His breath was pretty bad. “You’ll have to forget this part. I’ll have a bath and a tea and be as alluring as ever within the hour.”

“You’re still pretty alluring,” Bull rumbled. Dorian arched an amused eyebrow at him.

“Degenerate. Don’t you dare fall for me in this condition. We’ll be having the ‘I-don’t-even-know-who-you-are-anymore’ fight as soon as I’ve bathed and dressed.”

That made Bull laugh, which was a pretty damn welcome relief from the problem of dreaming. He offered Dorian that bath, but Dorian argued that he should be the one doing things for Bull. “It’s only to be expected, if I’m your suitor.” There was a moment of uncertainty there. Levity, making it a joke between them, but a little fear splashed in. Fear that it had been a joke already, last night, and now it was done.

“All right, Prince Charming,” Bull answered with an easy smile, and that took the tension away. It wasn’t a joke last night—it was serious. And it was a fun secret between them this morning.

Eventually, they compromised. Dorian allowed Bull to drag a wooden tub up to his room, which Dorian filled and heated with his usual skill set. Then he made them both tea and served it, and then he stripped entirely nude and he and Bull squeezed into in the tub. It was a bit crowded, but they fit.

They had breakfast together, and bathed—kind of awkwardly—and talked of nothing much, and kissed without much reason for it. Dorian’s smiles crinkled the corners of his eyes. To Bull, who had been accustomed to the many masks of indifference or superiority, this was a damn good look on the guy. It wasn’t quite perfect, because it wasn’t quite complete. Not that the relaxed happiness was another mask; Dorian wasn’t lying. But he was still a little restrained, a little careful with himself. Not surprising. After all, he didn’t know how this was going to go, yet.

Just the same, he had a damn pretty smile.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, now I've got a novel to get back to. XD

Bull stopped by the rotunda, and he didn’t go right up to the library to talk to Dorian. He wanted to ask Solas about something.

“A spirit of loyalty? Indeed?”

Bull didn’t tell much of what the spirit had showed him, but he asked if the thing’s claim to goodwill sounded right. Solas was surprised and very interested, but he didn’t have any immediate answers.

“Its behavior is not that of a demon, and gentle spirits do not lie about their natures. I can seek it out tonight. The Fade is not the same as our current geography, but there is still a…sympathetic locality. I could tell you more after talking to the spirit.”

“Uh…okay.” Bull thought that sounded creepy, but he reminded himself that they all talked to Cole, after all, and better Solas than him, anyway. “If you do find it and it checks out, tell it—thanks but no thanks. I’d rather do this without help.”

Solas nodded. “Understood.”

\--

“What do you _mean_ ‘get rid of it’?”

Dorian stopped with his hand on the War Room door and glanced back at him. Bull shrugged.

“An ancient magical elven mirror being presided over by an apostate who openly admits to exploring dangerous forbidden magic?” Cullen’s voice was loud and clear. Almost shouting. “You honestly think it’s _safe_ to have _that_ sitting in the middle of your stronghold? _Inquisitor?_ ”

One of Dorian’s eyebrows ticked upward. Bull shrugged again, then scooted closer to the door and leaned his ear toward it—close as he could, anyway. _Horns._

“You have a better suggestion?” Snapped back, loud and clear. “Perhaps it should be trundling around the countryside on a _cart_ , where any bandit force numerous enough to overpower a lone mage can steal it and take it to literally _anyone?_ ”

“ _Or you could allow me to set a Templar guard on it! Just one!_ ” Cullen was definitely shouting, now. Bull caught quick footsteps a moment before the door opened—just enough to let Red slip through, and then Josephine, turning to squeeze out without catching her ruffles on the door. “But no!” While the door was open, Cullen’s voice was even clearer. “ _Lady_ Morrigan objects, so _Maker forbid_ we cross the apostate’s wishes in even the smallest detail! Never mind the safety of every soul in this fortress!”

“Why are you so _bloody determined_ to suspect _every mage_ who doesn’t throw themselves at the feet of the Templars of being an abomination or a blood mage? You even _know_ Morrigan! How can you be so—”

The door shut, cutting off some heated name-calling. “Um.” Bull nodded to the ladies. “I guess we can report later.”

“Thank you, messeres,” Josephine answered politely, jotting a note on her clipboard as Red nodded and vanished. “When the Inquisitor is, ah, available, I think she’ll call upon you.”

A sudden _thud_ made everyone freeze. Something heavy had been thrown against the wall by the door. A moment later, there was a clattering, then another thump—more muffled. Then Bull heard something the human ears missed.

An eager little whimpering sound.

He cleared his throat. “Sounds good, see you later, come on, Dorian.” He corralled the other two away from the door before the noises could get loud enough for them to hear.

Dorian went along with it, but stopped out in the hall and glared at him. “Rather presumptuous of you. I might have preferred to wait and talk to Evelyn.”

“You’ll be waiting a while,” Bull explained softly. “They’re done fighting. Now they’re _making up_.”

Instantly, Dorian’s expression cleared. Eyes wide: “Ah.” He glanced back. “Well then. We can talk later.” The slightest smirk.

Bull agreed, and followed Dorian through the hall. Then, without explanation, he followed Dorian up to the library—or, he followed Dorian’s ass up the stairs, at least. Dorian sat at his desk and pulled out his research, and only then paused to look up at Bull, who was still standing around, watching him, leaning on a bookshelf. “Mind those bindings,” he chided, then: “Was there anything else?”

He hummed. “I was just thinking—all that time we spent not getting along. Maybe we shouldn’t have been so polite about it. One good knock-down, drag-out fight might have cleared the air. Especially if it ended up like _that_.”

Dorian gave him an arch look. “I think you’re saying you wish to have angry sex.”

Bull grinned. “Could be fun.”

“We haven’t even had proper…well. There are things we still haven’t done, angry or not,” Dorian pointed out.

_Can’t argue._ So Bull just nodded, eyeing Dorian appreciatively.

The Vint sighed, opened his books, dipped his quill, and concluded, “As your suitor, I shall take your request under advisement.” After a moment, though, he glanced back up. “I ought to warn you, with things between us as they stand now, I can’t say I have much to be angry about.”

“Give me a bit, I’ll probably fix that.”

Dorian’s mouth twisted, a slight sparkle in grey eyes. “I don’t doubt it.” Then he _tsk_ ed. “Now then, be off or be seated, but stop leaning against the shelves like that, you’ll rub the titles off the bindings.”

Bull chuckled and pushed away. “Sure. Hey—mind if I meditate here for a bit today?”

Dorian blinked. “Here?” Then he glanced upward. “Can you? The crows guarantee a distraction.”

“Hmm, yeah. That’s true.” Bull scratched his chin, glancing around.

“Would my room do?”

His attention focused on the too-casual Vint, thumbing through pages. “You don’t mind?”

In a blink, Dorian was all charm and smiles. “Not at all. Hold out your hands.”

Confused, Bull did, only to have Dorian pile his arms full of what appeared to be half the library before leading him to Dorian’s room. There, Dorian laid his research out, and Bull settled himself out of the way and sank back into the replay of memory. Starting at the beginning. Landing on the beach.

His meditation began to go better. Maybe it was the push from Loyalty. Maybe it was the scent of Dorian hovering around the room, an anchor, pulling his subconscious forward. For several days, they continued to meet in Dorian’s room. Dorian never asked what he remembered. Bull never turned the time alone together into an opportunity for sex. They parted when other duties called, and later in the evenings Dorian would sometimes join him in the tavern—and then above it.

Bull remembered their arrival in the camp. He located his flashback to Dorian’s amulet and was able to set it in context, and then rebuild the memories that followed. He remembered a tamassran— _Riha, that’s right_ —telling him he was “backed up,” as they put it in Qunlat. He remembered long hours having sex with her, and he was sort of surprised to recall that he hadn’t enjoyed it much at all. His only memories of visiting a tamassran until now had been of how simple, impersonal, and efficient it was—and they always knew how to get him off. Riha wasn’t like that. Riha wasn’t impersonal, and though she did get him off, it never seemed to take the itch away. Sometimes she let him go anyway. Sometimes she kept him until he didn’t end up satisfied so much as too tired to care anymore.

There were other memories—conversations at night, high in the trees. When they first surfaced, it was Vasaad in his mind—but there was no Vasaad. It took several tries to break through the wall of false memory and start to get back those chats the way they’d happened. Dorian, there with him, speaking Common, not Qunlat, and talking of purpose and uncertainty, instead of the certainty of the Qun.

He remembered another battle, and the tingle of Dorian’s barrier diverting a blade across his skin, and Dorian with an arrow in his arm. The way Hissrad felt when he looked at that unconscious little fop of a Vint who kept saving his life. He remembered wanting, with a fierce ache, but he hadn’t known how to understand it.

Until he figured it out.

He remembered the blood moons. After Dorian had described it to him, he figured he understood what had happened between them back then. And he was right, but not exactly. He could see the blood moons in his mind and feel Dorian in his arms. It was familiar—they did stuff like this now, and it was good. Still, it wasn’t exactly the same. The Dorian he knew now, the one who called himself Bull’s “suitor,” was happier than he’d been in all this time with the Inquisition. He smiled more honestly and spoke more truly. But he was still careful. Not hiding or lying—just careful.

In the memory, Dorian was open in ways that Bull didn’t think he’d ever seen him. What they did together was so honest—he wanted it like that again. To hear Dorian gasping like that, all masks and walls long abandoned and forgotten.

So in some ways, it was different. But in the way Bull felt about it, in the way he _wanted_ Dorian, it was much the same. Maybe less so in the memory, even. A shallower shadow of the way he felt now.

_This was why they had to create Vasaad. This was what they needed me to forget._

His decision, when he recovered it, no longer surprised him. It made sense. Of course, the right thing to do would have been to turn himself in for the _qamek_ and dig ditches for the rest of his life. But, just like now, he hadn’t—and he knew why. Then and now, why he’d been more willing to run than to submit.

Because he was a fighter, and people needed him. Maybe not the “right” people. Maybe some of them were _bas_. But their needs were still valid. Helping them was still important.

Bull opened his eyes to find Cole sitting across from him. He managed to not quite jump. Cole smiled. “I like your heart, The Iron Bull.”

_Yeah,_ he thought. _Me too_.

“ _Vishante kaffas!_ Oh, Cole.” A heavy sigh. “Maker, I ought to be accustomed to this by now…”

\--

It was just shit luck, in the end. Bad timing, out of his control.

The fog warriors attacked again, unexpectedly. Hissrad had been sure they’d hold their position, try to shore it up. It was the smart thing to do, and it had seemed like they were going to play it smart. But then they changed their mind; or maybe the Tal-Vashoth were eroding their forces too much, and they saw defeat coming, and decided to bleed the enemy as much as they could before slinking back into hiding.

Whatever it was, they attacked. Camp seven was burning by the time Hissrad got back from meeting the Vints. They fell back to camp five, then base six—highly fortified, right on the coast. They held the base, and they would have gone on holding it, but luck brought a shipment of reinforcements from Par Vollen two days early—an unusually fair wind—and the fog warriors were soon in full retreat.

And the Ben-Hassrath had sent three agents. One to remain, two to gather reports; one of them to continue to Rivain, one to go back to Par Vollen. Hissrad’s most recent records were a loss, along with camp seven, but anything older he’d already copied and sent duplicates to this base, for safekeeping. He got stuck behind a desk, recreating the most recent reports.

But the tide wouldn’t wait.

He planned to sneak out—risk a night journey down the coast to the meeting spot. It was his only shot.

He never got to try it.

The Ben-Hassrath talked to others, not just him, and before he could slip away in the night, someone had told them about the _bas saarebas_ prisoner.

One came into his office. Asked about it. Hissrad answered truthfully, and untruthfully—yes, there was a prisoner, and he was just about to set everything down in this report.

_Give a short overview._

__He lied a little. Evaded as much as he could, without seeming to evade. The Ben-Hassrath could have pushed harder and had him pinned, but she didn’t. She left with what he gave her—obfuscation and the promise of a full report.

He knew it couldn’t be that easy. He watched, waited…and then he ran.

He even got outside the base. The area all around was a wreck—the jungle burned and tattered, the scent of blood still on the fruit and flowers, though the bodies had been burned already. He got that far under a waning moon, and then they cornered him.

Even knowing it was stupid, he tried to run.

With a prick of a dart, it was over. Half-awake, almost completely paralyzed, he was dragged back into the base and locked up.

He did get on a ship, shortly after—the wrong ship, headed the wrong way. The reeducators took him into a dark, empty room that soon became his whole world. He didn’t try to lie to them—it was pointless. There was only one thing he didn’t tell them—Dorian’s house name. He’d never insisted on knowing it, so he couldn’t give it away now. Not that it would have mattered. They took all his thoughts and feelings and reshaped and redirected them. They created Vasaad to bear some of the love, and they pointed his loyalty back to the Qun.

\--

The Iron Bull opened his eyes in a room that he called his own—weird, sometimes. Not weird that he actually thought the room was _his_. Weird that he forgot how strange the very idea was.

And he didn’t blame the Qun.

_They did their best_ , he thought. _They tried to help me. For everyone’s sake. They did what they knew to do_.

It was okay—that part. He was at peace with it. They tore his _Kadan_ out of him—that was fine. They thought they needed to. They thought he was worth saving.

_So what the shit was the Storm Coast about?_

He turned it over and turned it over.

_They wanted me to kill my own Kadan._

It was that, wasn’t it? They wanted him to put the knife into his own chest and kill his heart—for the Qun. Cut out the _bas_ who had taken a place that wasn’t allowed to them. Be his own surgeon; no help from home, this time. _Grow up, Hissrad, and decide for yourself that the Qun is true, that the many are more important than any individual—even you._

So he’d failed. He _had_. But…

Noise filtered up from the tavern below. Singing. The Chargers’ company song. The many _bas_ who lived on.

It wasn’t just Hissrad. If they’d asked him to die for the Qun, for the alliance, he would have. But the Chargers were “many” too. The wrong kind— _bas_ —but they mattered.

It was that wall again—the one for the battlefield. The one that made them “not people” so he could kill them. He’d forgotten to keep that wall up all the time, in the South, among the _bas_. He’d forgotten to make sure they all stayed things, instead of people. They wanted him to fix himself, put that wall back up. Maybe he could have. But he didn’t. These days, he didn’t use that wall much at all, anymore. Only in battle. Not with the rest of the _bas_.

Not with the rest of the people.

\--

Dorian had finally got his hands on Cullen’s knight-captain.

…Which did not mean that he was currently fondling poor Rylen, strapping as the Starkhaven boy was. It meant he had taken Cullen’s chess piece, and he was crowing over his victory in the most subtle and teasing way possible—by continuing to hold it. And not just hold it—stroke it between fingertips. Rub it firmly with a thumb. Brush it against his lips—as if absently, as if in thought. As if unintentional and unaware, but of course Dorian was never _that_.

Cullen was entirely too focused on the game to notice.

_Ah well. Such a shame, Dorian Pavus. You should have gone to Orlais and had a whole line of men obsessed with you._ Someone entered the garden, and Dorian did not have to look to know it. _Instead—this._ He watched the Bull approach, smiling and waving. Dorian smiled back, just a bit, and put Cullen’s chess piece down. _Stop being so happy to see him._

__“Hey, big guy. Cullen, how’s it going?”

“Five more moves,” the Commander answered dryly.

“Really, Commander,” Dorian smirked, leaning back. “Give yourself a chance.”

“Five moves and I checkmate him,” Cullen clarified, glancing at Bull. “Then you can take him away and console him over his loss.”

Dorian smiled prettily. “I understand the Inquisitor has her own means of congratulating you on these…little victories.”

_That_ , at last, got a bright blush out of Cullen, though the handsome fellow grinned at the same time. “No comment. Your move, Lord Pavus.”

Dorian studied the board, inescapably aware of Bull pulling a chair up close behind him. _Watching_ , always watching. A touch on his hip, and Dorian almost jumped. Instead, he managed to smoothly relax into the hand that wrapped around him, pulling him closer to Bull’s great bulk—and even greater body heat. “You could still beat him,” Bull murmured, low, and close to his ear.

Deep voice, rich scent, warm skin, _massive_ —though Dorian betrayed nothing, he was immediately half desperate to be on his knees with the Bull inside him. He nearly moaned, but he smiled quietly instead. He had so much practice concealing this.

“Can I?” Dorian breathed. “Care to tell me which path to victory _you_ see?” He wondered if Bull would call that particular bluff—Dorian in fact saw no victory at all, though he’d stopped caring a quarter-hour ago, so it hardly mattered.

Bull just chuckled, and then talked him to victory, whispering in his ear while Cullen pretended not to notice them at all.

When Dorian won, he expected complaints—or for Cullen to point out the rather obvious detail that Bull had helped him. Instead, he got distracted congratulations, and Cullen quickly disappeared into the keep. “Boss is waiting for him,” Bull explained.

“Ugh, those two,” Dorian sighed. “Such conjugal bliss. How could I have had a hand in something so prosaic?”

Bull still held him close, and Dorian was keenly aware of being pressed against his side. “You don’t want to be happy, Dorian?”

Intolerable, how sweetly that was breathed into his hair. Intolerable again, how every inch of his body wanted to crawl into Bull’s lap and just _shiver_ with the happiness of it. If only he dared trust…

_Change the subject._

“Well, and what are you doing in the garden? Picking posies?”

“Mmm,” Bull rumbled, and _Maker_ would that ever stop giving Dorian the shivers? “I was actually looking for a hothouse orchid.”

Dorian clicked his tongue and stood up—a maneuver to keep himself form succumbing to a horrible urge to cuddle. “You’re not a spy anymore, you know. You can stop reading everyone’s mail.”

Bull heaved himself to his feet behind Dorian. It sounded like he mumbled, “If I stuck my ass in your face as often as you stick yours in mine…” Before Dorian could answer, he was being gently pulled along, leaving the garden. “Got some time?”

“That would depend upon what you call ‘some,’ and what you mean to do with it.”

Bull glanced at him and smiled. “Just a chat.” It was so casual and easygoing that Dorian immediately felt cold prickles race over his skin, from head to toe.

He smiled. Prettily. “Oh, well then. If that’s all.”

And then he followed Bull to his room with a frozen block of ice lodged in his stomach. _What is this, what’s he going to say, has he remembered and decided that…?_

Bull steered him toward a chair by the fire, which Dorian set blazing with an artful flair—it helped him keep his hands from trembling a little longer. He was glad to sit, his legs were getting weak with fear, but _chairs… Why not the bed?_ Bull pulled up a chair opposite him. _Not even one of us on the bed._ No open doors in that direction, then. A sterile conversation by the fire. Dorian felt sick.

_This is it._

“You wanted to know what happened to me. Why I didn’t show up to leave Seheron with you.”

Dorian’s chest _hurt_. It was hard, for a moment, to draw the air to speak. “I did ask that.” _If he remembered that far, he knows everything. Everything. He knows it all, and he puts us here in two chairs and tries to get me to relax, oh Maker._

__“Well, there was an attack. Things happened. Ben-Hassrath from Par Vollen showed up, and I got caught. I tried to get to you, but they knocked me out before I got anywhere, and then it was back to Par Vollen and…you know.”

“Mm.” Dorian studied the flames, their colors, their dance. “I suppose you couldn’t help any of that, then. I quite forgive you for letting me sail to Rivain alone.”

“I remembered the rest, too. I remembered how I felt about you.”

Slowly, Dorian lifted his eyes. “Yes?” He knew his face was perfectly blank. He just looked at Bull, and waited, and wouldn’t look away.

“Yeah.” Bull’s eye was sharp upon him. _Well, let him study the effect._ It only mattered what Bull would _say_. “You were important to me. In that short time, you made me feel things I had not felt before. But you didn’t change anything about me. Not really.”

“Ah.”

“I mean, you didn’t make me someone who could leave; I already was. You gave me a reason. But you didn’t do anything bad to me, and you probably didn’t deserve to be taken out of my memory by the reeducators.” He was being gentle. “From your point of view—it’s kind of a punishment. Me forgetting all about you. You didn’t deserve that.”

Dorian hadn’t even thought about that. Well, not lately. He’d felt it very unfair at first, but had long since accepted that it was what it was, and he certainly hadn’t expected any of this to be an important topic _now_. “I appreciate the apology, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“No, I know. But I just…” Bull winced. “To _show_ you. The contrast, the difference. It isn’t like that now.”

A bit lost—“So…how is it now?”

Still studying him: “Now, you _have_ changed me.” Dorian frowned. “Not in a bad way,” Bull added quickly. “You changed me…changed me _back_. You sat through some shitty times, and waited, and didn’t push too hard. And because of you, I got back what I’d lost. Memories, and a sense of…mm. I feel more myself, and _safer_ as myself. Because of you.”

“Oh. Well. You’re welcome.” Dorian was no longer sure about this, but… _If this is the end, please stop saying nice things to me and just get it over with. But…if this isn’t…_

“Dorian…” Bull leaned forward a little. “I really liked you back then. And I wanted you—bad. It’s just not the same now. It’s like…”

Dorian’s palms had been sweaty. It had all turned to frost, now. Frost sticking his hands to the arms of the chair. His eyes burned, but he wouldn’t shut them or look away. “Go on.”

Maybe it came out a little flat. Maybe it sounded like a pyre-side farewell to the dead. Bull frowned at him. “I’m not doing this right. I don’t know how to explain—those feelings, when I look at them now, they seem…weak.”

Unable to draw breath, Dorian barely managed: “Ah?” He _was_ shaking now, and probably close to tears. _Kaffas._

“Yeah…” Bull, watching him still, touched his hand. “I called you _Kadan_ before. It wasn’t wrong. But compared to what it means now…you really are _Kadan_. I won’t let anyone else come between—”

But he stopped there, silenced by a kiss and a lap full of Dorian. _How embarrassing_.

\--

Dorian was shaking. “Like a leaf,” they’d say in the South, where leaves were small and briskly tossed about by the wind. To Bull, it didn’t feel like foliage; it felt like tremors in the earth itself.

His mouth was hot and urgent and tasted a little sweet, like someone crying. And yeah, his eyes were bright and maybe a little wet, but Dorian was too busy kissing him to cry. His hands grasped Bull’s face, pulled him close—chased the shivers over his skin, neck, shoulders, arms. Back to the face. Kissing and gasping and trying to apologize, for some reason.

“Sorry, I’m—your pardon, really, I don’t know what’s come…I…I can’t seem to _stop_ , sorry.”

Voice rough, and shaking like the rest of him.

“I think I’ve just been—for too long—just keeping it all in, and now… Oh Maker, Bull, don’t let me _talk!_ ” And he locked his mouth onto Bull’s again, with a little hiccup in his air intake that sounded like a sob.

For all his inexperience with feelings, Bull had seen people overexcited often enough—if that was the word. _Probably closer to just snapping, actually, but that’s a form of too much excitement, too. Panic’s a kind of excitement_. “Dorian, hey, hey…” He rubbed hands over Dorian’s shaking body, trying to calm him like a spooked horse. Dorian drew in deep, shaking breaths and arched into his hands like a cat that had just found out what “petting” felt like. And he was still shaking. Bull gave him a long, hard look—especially the eyes. Grey that was begging him again, _pleading_. Desperate. Bull met the look and said, slowly and clearly, “You need me to throw you down and fuck you, don’t you?”

It was a guess. Something physical to center him, and to drain some of that energy. Dorian moaned, nodding almost frantically. “Yes, please, _please_ fuck me I, I love you Bull, oh, I- _mmhh._ ”

Bull growled a little into the kiss. Then he picked Dorian up and went to bed.

It was not technically the first time they did this—that was two nights ago, after working up to it for a bit. But it was still new. Dorian shaking so bad he couldn’t manage his buckles—Bull got to undress him, only wishing he could have taken his time with it more. The moment he pushed his oiled fingers inside him—that was the first time since it started that the trembling paused for a second. It began coming in bursts, alternating with sudden stillness as Dorian arched and stretched and rode Bull’s fingers.

New and familiar, too. When Bull pinned him to the bed with a hand pushing Dorian down and another holding him open, when Dorian’s shaking finally faded as he took Bull’s cock, when Bull could move his hands over Dorian, pull him closer, and feel the heavy beat of his heart instead of the panic—then it was familiar.

_No walls_.

No pretense, no being careful. Just Dorian, whispering some and wailing some. Words that Bull hadn’t ever used, himself— _love, amatus, my love, my love_ —but he felt them resonate deep. Like Dorian was giving him a new language, telling him the words he needed for the things he hadn’t known how to name.

It didn’t last long. Bull flipped Dorian over—fuck, he was a mess. But he reached for Bull and kissed him—missed his mouth, had to work his way over there—and Bull was lost. He wasn’t sure who came first. All he knew was beautiful, perfect Dorian— _Kadan._

__Funny thing—afterward, Dorian was limp and relaxed, and now Bull’s hands were shaking. Not nearly as bad, just a weird little tremor in them as he wiped Dorian down. It felt like…like after fighting a dragon. Reverence in touching the wonderful creature, nerves still on fire from the encounter with it.

He breathed, and focused, and it passed. Arms around Dorian, exhausted in his bed—that felt like a whole new kind of good. Not like anything else.

“I was going to leave, you know.” Dorian, soft with weariness, looking up at him and murmuring. “When you remembered. If you didn’t…well. I expected once you had the whole picture, if you decided there was no chance, you’d tell me. You are sometimes a gentleman.”

“Sometimes not, too,” Bull purred, caressing and squeezing as much of Dorian’s ass as he could encompass with one hand. Which turned out to be a lot.

A breathless laugh. “Yes, well.” Dorian shifted— _not_ to evade Bull’s touch. To settle more comfortably into it. “That is to say, if it was over, I was going to apologize deeply to Evelyn and…depart. Perhaps continue to aid the Inquisition from some other place, if I could, but…not here. I couldn’t be here anymore, I…I just couldn’t keep it up any longer.”

Bull hummed. “You were pretty sure it was going to go that way?”

Dorian smiled apologetically at him. “I admit I have a rather morbid outlook, at times. Especially when it comes to the things I want most.”

Inhaling deep and slow, Bull paused a moment before concluding, “And that’s me.”

The corner of Dorian’s mouth twisted a bit. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Bull contemplated the roof above them and the capriciousness of life for a moment. Then, with a sigh: “Yeah…” He glanced down at Dorian and grinned. “But I’m not complaining.”

“You don’t have to,” Dorian teased, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, real and honest. “I’ll probably complain enough for both of us.” He found Bull’s hand and held it. “I’ll depend upon your cleverness—don’t be fooled, no matter what disparagements I level at our—”

“—Relationship?” Bull provided.

Rather than answer, Dorian tucked his head forward against Bull’s chest. His back shook a little, ears red. Bull snorted and tweaked his buttocks. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Being in love is hysterical.”

“It is!” Dorian’s voice was muffled, his breath hot against Bull’s chest. Then he looked up, eyes a little teary. “I was half convinced it was terrifying, but after all, it’s just so _funny_.”

_That I’m in love with a Vint, and always will be? That I forgot all about him, and here we are anyway?_ “Yeah.” He pulled Dorian a little closer. “I guess it is.”

\--

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed the story! Special thanks to everyone who commented. <3  
> (I think I had something else to say, but this week has been eventful and wrecked my brain, and I almost forgot to post today, so oh well, never mind) XD Be well, each of you. <3


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